


What Leaves a Mark

by pick_up_on_a_longing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Cas and Dean cheating on their partners), Anal Plugs, Barebacking, Bondage, Bottom Castiel, Dean/Lisa is an open relationship, Dom/sub, Dominant Dean, Emotional Infidelity, Handcuffs, M/M, Marking, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Physical Infidelity, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean Winchester, Safewording, Spanking, Submissive Castiel, Top Dean, collaring, so many kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pick_up_on_a_longing/pseuds/pick_up_on_a_longing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel returns to Charleston, South Carolina, he's expecting to spend three months relaxing with his wife and rebuilding their tattered relationship.  He's certain, absolutely, that the return to the East Coast, where they met and fell in love, is exactly what their marriage needs.  Enter Dean Winchester, his charming neighbor with a past of his own.  One that, despite his reservations, draws Castiel in like a moth to a flame.  </p>
<p>  <i>"It's about trust," Dean says softly.  His eyes find Castiel's, finally.  "About trusting someone enough that you believe they'll take care of you."  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Dom/sub fic, meaning it will include everything that a Dom/sub relationship would. I am going to try to handle the details as respectfully and knowledgeably as I can, but this is a learning experience for me as much as Castiel. 
> 
> I lived in Charleston, S.C. for a summer several years ago, and have been back many times since, so a lot of the places referenced in this fic are real or based on real places.

A salty breeze drifts through the air, hitting him like a physical punch and Castiel closes his eyes against the twist of his heart. There was a time, long ago though it was, that the first reminder of the ocean was welcome and heartwarming and filled him with a sense of serenity. There was something about the sheer size of the Atlantic that made everything else, whatever his problems may be, seem so minuscule in comparison. But now it leaves him feeling sour. 

He’s loved Charleston since he was a boy. He used to vacation here with his mother and father until his mother got sick shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday. They made the trek from Illinois one more time, the year she died, and though it’s been several years now, the wave of pain hits him hard. His father was never the same after Naomi’s passing, and when he joined her the following winter, Castiel packed up his things and moved himself permanently to the East Coast. He bought his first house here, met and married his wife here. For a long time he was happier than he could ever remember being.

That was all before, though. Before he and Daphne moved to Virginia to be closer to her parents while they worked on starting a family. Before ten pregnancy tests came back negative. Before they stopped trying. Before the fire. 

He shakes his head to dispel the dark thoughts playing in his mind’s eye. This summer is going to erase those memories, and create new ones, better ones. He’s sure of it. The change of scenery, the return to the place that they once loved as much as they loved each other is the best decision he can remember them making. It’s why they’ve spent months dining on ramen noodles and rice, and it’s going to be money well-spent.

He enters the diner, the reason he’s on Silver Street at all, and tries to pretend that he doesn’t feel the half dozen pairs of eyes that swivel in his direction. Charleston gets a great deal of revenue from tourists, it’s true, but the Roadhouse isn’t the kind of place to wind up in a viewer’s guide. The food is excellent and there are no drinks that the bartender Ash doesn’t know how to mix, but when the owner, Ellen Harvelle, lost her husband, the place started showing its age. It needs a fresh coat of paint and some better lighting inside, but is popular with the locals and Castiel was well-aware, when he signed the lease on the house, that his return would stir some interest. 

But Castiel has known Ellen for years, and approaches the bar without hesitation.

She’s wiping down the counter, but looks up when he stops. He smiles as her mouth drops open with surprise. He made a point to visit her when he was browsing the rentals a few months back, but every reconciliation with the woman seems to make their separations harder. And yet, she looks exactly the same. It’s the same shoulder-length brown hair that he’s always known, same soft, understanding eyes.  She always got along well with his mother, and spent a week in Pontiac, helping Castiel’s father with the funeral arrangements when she died. He suddenly loves her so much in that moment that he could weep.

“As I live and breathe,” she says, as she has so many times before. “Castiel Novak!” She strides around the bar to pull him into a tight embrace. He buries his face into the column of her neck and breathes in the soft scent of burgers and pies that he’s come to recognize over the years. 

“I missed you, Ellen.” It’s true. “How’s Jo?”

Ellen makes a soft, disapproving sound as her pulls back.  Her gaze drops. “Got it into her head that she’s going to drop out of college.”

Castiel is surprised and is sure his face shows it. His last visit, Ellen was still relating tales of her daughter’s affinity for numbers, talking about Jo submitting an application to join an advanced math course. But something huge must have changed because Ellen isn’t one to overreact, and if she’s worried, there’s reason to be. So he asks, “What would make her change her mind like that?”

The look Ellen gives him is too speculative for the casual conversation. He blinks back at her, with the strong feeling that he’s missed something. But a heartbeat later the strange expression is gone and she’s giving a stiff shrug. “She’s just having doubts, like any other kid. Let’s talk about something a little more pleasant now. How long are you going to be in Charleston?”

She asked him this before, but he understands that she’s trying to sidestep what is an uncomfortable subject, and takes the deflection offered. “Until the end of August. So, just under three months.”

“And which place did you decide on?”

“The one on Overview. You can see the ocean from the deck.”

Ellen smiles a genuine smile. “Of course. That’s a lovely place you’ve chosen. You’ll love Folly Beach. You know, good friends of mine actually own the house next door.”

“They do,” Castiel asks with surprise.  Then he smiles.  “Anyone you’re friends with must be worth getting to know.” 

“I’ve always had excellent taste.”

Castiel’s eyes slide up to the clock that hangs behind the bar and he flinches when he sees the time. He’s a half hour behind schedule, and he’s barely had any time with Ellen. Clearly the drive here took a little longer than he’d hoped. “I should be going,” he says, taking a step away from the bar. There's a stab of guilt when he notices the disappointment in her eyes.

“I understand.  When’s Daphne going to join you?” 

“Tomorrow night,” Castiel tells her. “There were a couple more boxes and she wanted to spend an extra day with her parents.”

Ellen nods. “I remember her telling me that they’re close. Well, the two of you come see me once you’re settled, you hear?”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promises.

Folly Beach is fifteen minutes from downtown Charleston, where The Roadhouse is, so it’s still light out when he pulls into the driveway. He cuts the ignition before getting out of his car, and uses his key to pop the trunk. The house is furnished, but there are still things they’ll need while they’re here. He pulls out the first box, one that feels like kitchenware and hauls it carefully onto his shoulder. He’s able to get the house key in without issue, sliding it into the lock, and twists the doorknob to his temporary home.

He's just gotten a glimpse of the caramel wood floor and the wide bay window in the living room when he feels the box suddenly dip backwards, knocking him off balance. He throws both of his arms up to catch it, but it’s heavier than he’s prepared for and gravity works against him. He has a brief vision of tripping over his own feet before he feels a hand settle on his elbow, nudging him upright. 

It’s exactly the counterweight that he needs, and he unceremoniously drops the box onto the floor. “Thank you,” he says, turning to look at his savoir. 

It’s a man, early-thirties, if Castiel had to guess. His eyes are a bright green and his hair sandy and light. There’s five o’clock scruff shading his cheeks and jaw and when he smiles he reveals a set of perfectly in-line, white teeth. “You okay there,” the man asks.

Castiel smiles back and nods. “Yes.  Thank you for the help. I think I underestimated just how heavy kitchen cutlery would be.”

“Or maybe overestimated your own sense of balance.” The man’s voice is light and teasing and Castiel is surprised by the chuckle he emits. 

“That’s a possibility too,” he agrees, still grinning. “I’m Castiel Novak.” He extends his hand for the man to shake. 

“Dean Winchester.” The man – Dean – clasps his hand, grip firm and strong. “Looks like we’re neighbors now.” He gestures to the house to their left. “My girlfriend and I live right there.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dean,” Castiel says. He takes a step closer to his door and then pauses, turning back. “I’d invite you in for a beer, but I haven’t had a chance to do any grocery shopping yet.”

Dean sighs as though deeply disappointed. “Man, and I thought we could be friends.  But I don’t associate with heathens who don’t know that beer should be the very first thing bought for a new home.”

“I’ll try to be better,” he reassures Dean, who nods his approval.

“That’s what I like to hear.” He pauses, there’s a moment of silence that feels comfortable, somehow. “Hey, you know, if you don’t have anything around here for dinner, Lisa and I will be grilling some burgers out back in about an hour. You could come by, if you want. Not to brag or anything but I really know my way around a spice rack.”

Castiel has never been one for socializing. He’s never been very good at making a first impression, and trying to carry on an engaging conversation with people he doesn’t know sounds daunting. But he has to admit that there’s something about Dean that he instinctively trusts, that makes him want to know him better, if he can. It’d be nice, he decides, to have friends in the area again. He has Ellen, of course, and Hannah Gilbert, whom he’s known since before his marriage, but Dean seems different. “I’ll be there,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Dean's responding smile is wide and near blinding. It makes Castiel’s heart flutter with surprise and the urge to respond in kind is so strong that his lips curve up again without his permission. “Cool,” Dean replies. “You need help with the rest of your stuff?”

“No thank you. None of the other boxes should give me any trouble.”

“Well, if you’re sure-” Dean gives him a sharp, questioning look, and Castiel nods again.  “I’m going to head back. Lisa’ll be wondering. I was just supposed to come out here to get the mail. But just head to the back around seven. That’s where we’ll be.”

“Alright. It was nice to meet you,” Castiel says. 

“You too, man.”

*

It doesn’t take much longer for Castiel to unload the other three boxes, so he spends the rest of the hour unpacking. As he lays his wife’s favorite quilt along the back of the couch, he allows his gaze to move across the room and take in his surroundings. 

He knew it was right the moment he laid eyes on it. Oh, he’d hemmed and hawed about the price and the run-down porch, but he hadn't been able to wait a week before signing the lease. It was just a house, he knew, and one he wouldn’t be living in for very long, but it called to him. _It has character,_ he told Daphne later, who’d laughed and said she trusted his instincts. Now, as he looks around, it’s as lovely as he remembers. Hardwood floors, dark yellow walls, crown molding. It’s not large – the living room is almost too small for the leather couch and chair and the low coffee table that make up its furniture, but if he props open the glass door that leads to the back deck, he can hear the sounds of waves breaking on the beach. 

The master bedroom is roughly the same size, and though the dresser and chest of drawers are nothing special, he likes the four poster bed. It seems . . . grand in a way. Castiel has always gravitated more towards smaller charms, but it’s like it has a history and his nostalgic nature likes that. 

He appreciates the kitchen for what it is. It holds nothing more spectacular than an oven, stove, and microwave, no room for even a breakfast table. But there are plenty of cabinets for their cooking supplies and neither he nor Daphne pretends to be a chef. 

Truth be told, though, what drew him here in the first place, is the exterior. The deck at the back is _huge,_ with a patio table, four chairs and a stainless steel grill tucked up against the far railing. The view is downright stunning, had stolen his breath when he saw it. An orange sunset glittering off the murky blue of the Atlantic, well, there’s nothing quite like it and in Castiel’s opinion is what Heaven must look like.

The chimes of the grandfather lock echo from the entry way and Castiel blinks himself back into the present. He rises from placing the photo albums into the bottom drawer of the dresser, and as he makes his way to the back door, he has the strangest desire to give himself a once-over in the mirror.  He knows he looks fine, blue jeans and a blue short-sleeved shirt, but it’s difficult to ignore.  He shakes his head at himself in bewilderment, and pushes open the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be very, very clear, Fifty Shades of Grey is just about the worst example of BDSM out there (leaning far more towards abuse than actual BDSM), but I do think that its popularity has spurred conversations about the BDSM lifestyle, hence the dinner scene in this fic. But, like Dean, I would never suggest that anyone read it or see the movie in hopes of getting a real understanding of that world.

The thing was that Mary – Dean’s mother – started out as an atrocious cook. She was never one to stand at her mother’s apron strings and watch her whip up a pie with wide-eyed amazement. Domesticity appealed to her as a vague idea, and she loved raising her two boys, but her husband, John, was the one who did the cooking in the Winchester house.

Until he died.

It was a heart attack, the doctors tried to reassure them that he hadn’t suffered, but all the comfort in the world had meant nothing in the face of what lay before them. Weeks of Mary scouring the classifieds for work of any kind, long hours at the diner that finally took her in. John had been the breadwinner of the family, working as a mechanic in town, and Mary had nothing by way of work experience, so despite the wear on her feet, and the gentle smell of fries that followed her home, she was determined to be grateful for the job. Dean and Sam never saw her cry, not once, not even the morning the Impala broke down on her way to take them to school and it’d cost money they didn’t have to get it fixed. If it wasn’t for Bobby Singer’s kindness and his free labor, they probably would have had to forfeit the car entirely.

Things got better, over time. The years at the diner, of being around food, taught her to cook meals for her family. She came home with recipes for soups and pork chops and chicken. She learned to sauté and grill, and the day she made her first pie from scratch, she’d held her breath as her sons took their first bite. Sam and Dean’s smiles – and utter devotion to nearly licking their plates clean – were all the answers she needed.

And the boys were alright, that was the most important thing. Sam excelled at school, rejoiced in all forms of learning, and though he groaned about his constant boredom, Dean’s grades just reaffirmed his own smarts. Similar but different, it was the way the brothers were.  Dean preferred to keep his ties to his family and was choosy with his friends, Sam more social and at ease in groups.  Sam liked his American Eagle wardrobe, Dean preferred his leather jacket and tees. They were close, though, overwhelmingly so, and Mary couldn’t help smiling a little to herself when her friends went on long tirades about their children’s sibling rivalry. She had no idea what that was like.

Dean was sixteen when he started helping out in the kitchen. Sam had joined a Little League baseball team (to the endless amusement of his older brother), meaning that he wasn’t around as often in the afternoon and Dean’s afternoons took a boring turn. So when he turned up in the kitchen one Tuesday, offering to help with the chicken Mary was basting, Mary had given him a wide smile and passed him the baster.

It’s all this that Dean is thinking of as he flips the burgers on the grill, one by one. 

This is one of the tougher days, he has to admit, as he hangs the spatula on the nail by the grill and steps back. Mary’s only been gone three months, and the pain comes to him in waves. Usually, when it gets bad like this, when the memories are flashing through his mind like a disjointed movie, he gives Sam a call. Sam’s always been good at hearing what lies beneath Dean’s words, and he’s better than most at pulling Dean’s thoughts from the darkness, but Sam called him on his way into court today, so Dean knows it’ll be hours before he’ll turn his phone back on. Lisa tries, she really does, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, his back, soft words meant to soothe. But she doesn’t understand, can’t, really, because she takes a pottery class with her mother and her father spends Sundays golfing at the Country Club. 

“What time did you tell the new guy to be here,” she calls to him now, from the kitchen. They’ve got the backdoor that separates the kitchen from the deck open, with just the screen door shut to protect against bugs. 

He pulls out his cellphone to check the time.  “Seven.”  And because it’s seven on the dot, he glances up and over to their neighbor’s house, just in time to see Castiel making his way over. Even from the distance he can see Castiel’s eyes flying across the lawn, then flickering to the ocean. When they finally settle on Dean, the corners of the man’s lips tilt up. 

“Glad you found the place,” Dean jokes as Castiel steps within earshot. 

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion and tilts his head. “It was hardly a challenge,” he answers with sincerity. “You live next door.” 

Dean chuckles and shakes his head, turning back to the burgers sizzling on the grill. Castiel steps a bit closer, to breathe in the smell, and Dean watches his reaction. The resulting stomach growl is very satisfying, and Dean smiles again, despite himself. “Fan of burgers, Cas?”

“They do smell very . . . appetizing.  Will they be long?” He looks damn close to snatching one off as-is.

Dean nudges him away, turning towards the kitchen. He leads Castiel to Lisa, who’s pulling the fries from the oven and when she straightens she gives them both a wide smile. “Hi,” she says. She pulls off the oven mitt and offers her hand. “Lisa Braeden. You must be Castiel.”

Castiel nods, clasping her hand before releasing it. “Yes. Thank you for the dinner invitation. I was facing an evening with Stouffer’s Spaghetti and Meatballs otherwise.”

Lisa makes a horrified face that Dean is certain matches his own. “Thank God we could rescue you,” Lisa says, before turning to Dean and giving him a pleading look. They’ve been in this relationship for a while, so he reads it easily enough, but that doesn’t stop him from sighing as he yanks the silverware draw open with more force than necessary. 

“What’s wrong,” Castiel asks, glancing between them with surprise.

“I’m being forced to set the table.” Dean grins when Castiel’s expression slides into amusement. He rolls his eyes, but huffs a soft laugh. 

“My deepest sympathies.”

Dean reaches into the cabinet above Castiel’s head to pull out three plates, then shoves them into Castiel’s arms. “Well don’t feel _too_ sorry for me, because unfortunately for you, I have to go check the food.” Castiel opens his mouth to protest, and Dean doesn’t really know where the instinct comes from, only that he holds up a hand to still the words. “No argument. Another minute in here and those gorgeous burgers you were drooling over will taste more like charcoal than beef.” And it’s not like Dean hates setting the table more than any other household chore – really, he started this just to make his girlfriend smile – but something he hasn’t felt in a very long time sparks to life as Castiel takes the dishes without a word and turns to the table. His heart beats a very familiar rhythm that pumps with ferocity into his veins even as he attempts to soothe it into complacency. Remembering the feel of hard, wooden handles gripping into his palms, the sound of handcuffs locking into place is dangerous territory.

So distracts himself by doing what he said he would and returning to the grill to remove the food. With his back to the house he allows himself one long, deep breath. Above all else, he can’t let Lisa see him like this. She wouldn’t judge him, he doesn’t think. She knows about his past, about Cassie and, before her, Bela. She knows what’s in the box at the back of the attic. But she was unwavering at the start of their relationship that all that had to stop if they were going to try to make a go of it. Their relationship is unique in ways of its own, and Dean _knows_ he doesn’t need that stuff anymore. It’s just, sometimes he needs a reminder. 

When he rejoins Castiel and Lisa, with the burgers in hand, the table is set, and the sound of the radio drifts over from the living room. Kansas quietly implores its wayward son to carry on while Lisa grabs three beers from the fridge, and sets them on the table. The corners of Cas’ mouth are turned up as he listens to Lisa’s version of the day she and Dean met. 

“Of course, by then he had a bit of a reputation, you know,” Lisa tells him. “I mean, it wasn’t like he’d never been in a serious relationship-“  Dean stiffens, uncertain of where exactly this line of thought is going, but Lisa, goddess that she is, sidesteps any landmines, “but he was so patient. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get involved so soon after my divorce, but we put our heads together and figured out a . . . compromise, you might say.” 

Dean can tell that Castiel is seconds away from asking about that compromise, so he intervenes. “Okay, how ‘bout we save the T.M.I. ‘til after we’ve eaten, that cool?” There’s something about Castiel that gives Dean the impression he was raised in a religious household, and he doesn’t feel like seeing any disapproval on his new friend’s face when the term ‘open relationship’ comes up. And it will. He and Lisa refuse to be embarrassed about their situation, and it’s not something they’re inclined to hide. Still, he’d like to get a real feel for Castiel before he delves into all of that.

Castiel inclines his head in agreement, and the trio get to making their plates. Lisa is a master in the kitchen, slicing and dicing with all the finesse of a world class chef, and Dean grins at the identically sliced pieces of onion and cheddar cheese. He loads up his burger, blatantly ignoring the lettuce and tomato that are also lying out, and grabs a handful of fries, dropping them onto his plate. The ketchup bottle is already on the table so he takes his seat next to his girlfriend, who is digging into her dinner. Castiel settles into the chair on Dean’s other side.

Dean’s eyes slide over to observe Castiel as he cautiously picks up his burger and takes a large bite.

The effect is instantaneous. One moment Castiel is the very picture of inquisitive, and the next his eyes are slamming shut while he groans around his food. “This is-“ He breaks off to take another bite.  

Dean’s surprised by the relief that floods him at the cheer in Castiel’s expression, but he shakes his head fondly regardless. “Too good for words?”

Cas moans back in reply.

“So, Castiel,” Lisa prods after a couple of minutes. “What do you do?”

Castiel looks up, and Dean can see that he’s taken off guard by the question. A strange, disconnected sadness flares to life in the slow blink Castiel gives as he considers. “I’m a professor,” he says, after a moment. He picks up a fry and bites into it. “I was teaching at a school in Virginia before Daphne and I decided to come back to Charleston for the summer.”

“What do you teach,” Dean asks.

“I have a degree in Religious Studies. My area of expertise is general mythology, which-” And then, just like that, he full-stops, and swallows hard. He glances at Dean, then Lisa, and something in Dean’s gut twists with preemptive sympathy. “I should . . . explain.”  His voice drops lower. He clears his throat. “A few weeks before the end of the term, there was a fire. At the school.”

Lisa’s jaw drops. “A fire,” she repeats. “That’s terrible! Was anyone hurt?”

“Three students were killed,” Castiel answers. He swallows hard. “The fire completely destroyed the science building, which is where my classes and my office were.” He pauses and seems to interpret their stunned silence. “I didn’t mean to make the dinner conversation so maudlin. I just wanted to explain before Daphne gets into town tomorrow. She took the fire very hard, and I don’t want to remind her, upset her when we’re supposed to be on vacation. But as our newest friends, I did want you to know. It’s not a secret, just a little painful to relive.”

“We understand,” Lisa assures him, smiling gently. “We both have pasts of our own.”

It’s almost like Lisa’s comment is a cue, the way the radio shifts seamlessly from music to commercial. The sound of disjointed keys played on a piano fill the room and he’s heard it so many times that he tenses on instinct, even before the deep voice of the narrator says, _Coming soon to DVD_. He glances at Lisa, who gives no reaction, and he breathes a little easier.

So, of course, Castiel has to be the one to make things awkward. Again. “Either of you two heard about this,” he asks, amusement thick in his voice as the commercial draws to a close. “This _Fifty Shades of Grey_ phenomenon?”

Lisa clears her throat and takes a drink from her beer so Castiel turns his full attention to Dean, who clenches his jaw against the annoyance he can feel rising up in him. There’s disappointment mixed in there too, and he tries not to wonder why it’d matter to him that Castiel has the same prejudices as almost everyone else. “You don’t approve of BDSM,” he asks, deciding that’s as safe an answer as he can provide. 

Castiel shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “No, I can’t say that I do. I’ve never found the idea of beatings to be terribly romantic.”

And Dean’s certain that Castiel has no idea, but tension immediately pours into the room, thick and stifling. The times that he’s had similar conversations with Lisa, the hours they spent discussing this very thing, come racing into his mind. It’s silly to get offended over something he doesn’t practice anymore, but he can’t help that he finds himself saying, a little sharply, “I’m pretty sure that’s not what it is.”

Castiel tilts his head at Dean. “Are you suggesting that I go out and buy that movie?”

“No! Definitely not. That’s not – Okay, look, I’m not an expert or anything.” He ignores the way Lisa shifts in her seat. “But _Fifty Shades_ isn’t the kind of reading material you need to ingest if you’re interested in learning about BDSM. Trust me on that.”

“I didn’t say I was interested. As I said, abuse-”

“For God’s sake, it’s not abuse! Well, okay, that movie slash book is, but.” Dean sighs and scrubs his hand down his face. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes that is growing with each passing second.  “You know what, never mind. If that’s how you feel about it, that’s how you feel. It’s your prerogative. Let’s talk about something else.”

And Lisa jumps into a description of her yoga class.


	3. Chapter 3

It was clearly a mistake to bring up _Fifty Shades of Grey_ because Dean is off for the rest of the meal.

Castiel feels terrible.

His stomach is in knots as he lays his plate in the sink and hesitantly returns to the table. Lisa is in the restroom and he and Dean are alone, and the silence is deafening. He searches his mind for something to say, but nothing comes. 

He has to say _something_ though. Only one evening together and already Castiel likes Dean too much to let this discomfort reign. In his mind he’s been calling him his friend, and the idea of letting it slip through his fingers so quickly bothers him more than he cares to admit. 

So he takes a long, deep breath, and touches Dean’s elbow with the tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling it deep in his bones. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows then shrugs. “It’s fine, man, really. It doesn’t matter. Just a difference of opinion.”

“It _does_ matter,” Castiel counters. His eyes flicker from Dean’s tense shoulders to his clenched jaw and swallows down the part of him that is half-willing to beg if it will mean that Dean will at least meet his gaze. But Dean is staring at the space just off to the right of Castiel’s head. He sighs and tries again. “It’s very obvious that my ‘opinion’ of this bothers you, and I’d just like to understand why.”

The huff of frustration Dean releases is harsher than Castiel expected, but he doesn’t speak as he waits for Dean’s reply. Seconds pass with agonizing slowness, long enough that Castiel wonders if Dean is going to answer him at all. He’s all but given up hope when the sound of Dean’s voice startles him into the present. “Look, Cas, it’s just. You were being kind of judgmental, you know? And, I mean, I get it, BDSM doesn’t have the best reputation, and God knows, _Fifty Shades of Douchebag_ isn’t exactly helping, but, it’s not . . .  It’s not about hurting someone.”

Castiel tilts his head and he can’t stop himself from asking, “Then what’s it about?”

Dean’s expression slides into something he can’t identify.  “It’s about trust,” Dean says softly. His eyes find Castiel’s, finally. “It’s about trusting someone enough to believe that they’ll take care of you. And I mean, don’t get me wrong, pain can be a part of it, and a lot of times it is, but it doesn’t _have_ to be. Some asshole wailing on a girl that’s having the opposite of a good time, that’s nowhere in the spectrum of BDSM. That’s what we call abuse. ‘Safe, Sane, Consensual’ is the BDSM motto.”

Castiel blinks as he tries to absorb all the information he’s just taken in. “Safe, Sane, Consensual.”

“Right.”

Worded like that, Castiel concedes, it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.  What should it matter to him if people choose to engage in sex that way?  And, as Dean has said, it’s not a subject with which he has any familiarity.  Guilt tags at him sharply.  “You’re right.  I apologize.”  He opens his mouth to say something else, though he doesn’t know what, but Dean glances over his shoulder before he can, closing the conversation. 

Dean smirks and then calls out, in the direction of the restroom, “Alright, Lisa, you can come out.  We’re all friends again.”

Immediately, the door swings open and Lisa exits, composed and unashamed.  “Thank God,” she says brightly.  “Another minute of that tension and I was going to break out the tequila.”  She strides over to them, and wraps her arms around Dean’s neck from behind, settling her chin on his shoulder.  It’s relaxed, a gesture that’s been done a hundred times before and Dean smiles, so Castiel doesn’t know why there’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I should be going,” Castiel tells them, getting to his feet. “Thank you for inviting me over.”

Lisa rolls her eyes and crosses to hug him. From behind her Dean gives him a surmising look. “Please,” Lisa replies with a laugh. “It was our pleasure. You’ll bring your wife over once she’s settled in?”

“Of course.” Castiel clears his throat. “Dean, I’ll think some more about what you said.”

Dean gives a slow nod in return.  “Yeah, do that.”

*

When Castiel steps back through the door of his own house, there’s a chill in the air so sharp that goose bumps scatter up his arms. He breathes out, a test, and his breath comes out as a fog. He stares at it in terror until it dissipates. 

Cold and foreboding fill his senses and his eyes dart around the room, but find nothing out of order. The boxes are just where he left them, the curtains are still. And yet he’s certain he’s not alone.

Because he’s felt like this before. Once. And minutes later the Science building of Southside Community College was engulfed in flames.

He walks slowly towards the kitchen, flipping on every light and lamp in the room as he goes.  He’s had nightmares that have started not dissimilar to this very moment, and he doesn’t bother smothering a small sound of relief as the shadows flee.  The light gives him a semblance of peace, makes it easier to pretend that he isn’t remembering the way smoke had drifted in heavy curls under his office door.  He’d been scared that he’d choke to death right then and there.  _But it didn’t happen that way,_ he reminds himself.  He got out safely, Daphne too. 

He reaches for the television remote and hits the power button, but when it comes to life, he feels his heart leap into his throat.  It’s just white static buzzing back at him, no matter what channel he punches in.  He tries to think but his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t.  In that moment he’s tempted to stumble back to Dean and Lisa’s and make up some excuse about a gas leak, a broken window, anything, really, that would get him in the door. 

But he can’t, he knows that.  If what he thinks is going on is actually . . . going on, he can’t bring that kind of danger into their home. 

He doesn’t even register the movement before he’s grabbed his laptop with one hand, and a bottle of Scotch and a blanket with the other.  It takes a few tries thanks to the tremble of his hands to get the backdoor open, but when he finally succeeds his heart rate begins to slow.  He lowers himself into one of the large chairs and, as he pulls the blanket up over his legs, he’s able to take his first deep breath since he got home. 

_It’s not her, it’s not her, it’s not her._

He repeats the words firmly to himself as he boots up his laptop.  He doesn’t know why he does it, but he finds himself Googling photos from the fire and he flips through until he finds the one he’s looking for.  He’s seen it before, and there was always something about it that whispered to him.  In a lot of ways it’s like all the others.  Students and faculty milling around the campus, watching in horror as a part of the school burns to the ground.  But in this one . . .

Castiel didn’t know Anna Milton particularly well.  She took his introductory class her freshman year, and, other than a handful of visits to his office that semester, he never spoke with her directly.  In this picture, taken by a photography student Castiel knew only by sight, Anna Milton stands a few yards away, her profile highlighted by the flames roaring far behind her.  Her face isn’t tilted to the tragedy unfolding, but rather, on her own hands, as she plays with a lock of her hair.  Her mouth is twisted into a tiny smile, chilling and detached. 

And Castiel knows that it was a problem with the electrical wiring that caused the fire, the Department Head, Dr. Blake, told him herself.  But the eeriness of Anna’s grin haunts him still, even as he closes his eyes and falls into a restless sleep.

*

When Castiel blink awake, he knows that several hours have passed.  It’s still early, there’s a soft mist that dulls the sun’s light, and though his back hurts and his neck shrieks a loud protest when he moves it from side to side, he feels much better.  Calmer. 

Now, with a brand new day ahead of him, it seems ridiculous that he jumped to the conclusions that he did, the night before.  He’s hundreds of miles away from Virginia and all that darkness.  There’s no way it could have followed him here.  It’s what he’s been looking forward to most, clearing out the cobwebs that the fire left behind. 

He stands up to stretch and glances off to the right, towards Dean’s porch.  He isn’t outside, which, Castiel decides, is probably a good thing.  He doesn’t want to try to explain why he slept outside and though he hasn’t known the man but one day, he can already picture the teasing he would endure. 

He trudges back inside and heads to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, a part of the morning routine that he’s had since high school.  He started sneaking cups of his mother’s brew when he was fifteen and it made him feel older, and now he doesn’t understand how the uninitiated can even remain upright the entirety of the day. 

While he waits on his coffee, he meanders back outside, and flips open his laptop.  The picture from last night is still on the screen, so he quickly exits out before bringing up Chrome again.  He stares at the search bar for several seconds in uncertainty.

_It’s about trust._

Dean’s words from the night before come roaring back to him and Castiel spares himself only one more minute of hesitation before he types four letters and hits Enter.

He clicks the Wiki link first. 

 _BDSM is a variety of erotic practices involving dominance and submission, roleplaying, restraint, and other interpersonal dynamics_ , he reads. _Given the wide range of practices, some of which may be engaged in by people who do not consider themselves as practicing BDSM, inclusion in the BDSM community or subculture is usually dependent on self-identification and shared experience. Interest in BDSM can range from one-time experimentation to a lifestyle._

Which tells him exactly nothing.  He sighs and skips ahead and nearly flinches at the Subheading, “Types of Play” but clicks it anyway.  There are sixteen “types” according to Wiki, and as he takes in their meaning a nervous, almost anticipating, flutter erupts in the pit of his stomach.  He clicks one at random, Flogging, and as he reads its description, he feels his face flush. 

_Flagellation, flogging, whipping or lashing is the act of methodically_ _beating the human body with special implements such as whips, lashes, rods, switches, the cat o' nine tails, the sjambok, etc._

Castiel has no idea what a ‘cat o’ nine tails’ is, but he can’t deny that the rest doesn’t sound so bad.  If it’s consensual, if it’s what the other person wants, well it can’t be such a terrible thing, can it? 

He picks another, Bondage, and as he reads about it, his heart sharply switches from light fluttering to pounding against his ribcage.  Ropes, cuffs, and bondage tape fall under this heading, and though he’s trying desperately to keep himself from doing just that, an image, unbidden, flickers to life in his mind: himself, completely naked, wrists tied tight behind his back, legs bound at the ankles.  Face flushed red, excitement in his eyes, because he wouldn’t be able to pretend that stripping himself bare like this, being vulnerable to capable hands, wouldn’t leave arousal flaring like a dancing flame.  It should shame him, and in a way it does, but not nearly enough to fully erase the image.

He swallows thickly and runs his tongue along his suddenly too-dry lips.  It’s just fantasy, curiosity, so he tells himself that there’s no harm in mentally casting Daphne as the one tying the ropes.

Except that it doesn’t fit, not really.  Kind-hearted, soft-spoken Daphne, standing over him, strong, controlled, metaphorical reins in her hands.  They met at church, her father’s a _Pastor._ She was never a wild child, never experimented with drugs, never had a drink of alcohol until she was in her late twenties.  Sexually, it’s missionary-style only, and since the fire Daphne . . .  Well, there’s a reason they’ve taken this vacation.

He shakes the thoughts from his head and returns to the kitchen to pour himself a generous cup of coffee, and when he steps back outside, he freezes at the sight that awaits him.

Dean, eyes glued to Castiel’s laptop screen, eyebrows arched up to his hairline.  He doesn’t notice Castiel, gaze flying across the lines, reading up on the research that Castiel spent the morning agonizing over.  His brain tells him to call out, to berate Dean for the invasion of privacy, but he can’t seem to verbalize anything beyond a soft sound of shock. 

It’s at that moment that Dean looks up.  There’s not even an inch of mockery in his glittering green eyes as he sweeps a long look up Castiel’s form.  In that moment Castiel would swear it’s the first time he’s ever been seen so clearly. 

Then Dean gestures him forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Next chapter is when things finally get moving. Any and all comments/kudos are appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean’s not sure what he’s thinking as his brain slowly translates the words dancing across Castiel’s laptop screen.  He understands what they mean, what the scene here depicts, but it refuses to compute.  There’s a Wiki page about Bondage up.  It’s Castiel’s laptop.  It’s in Castiel’s house, and it’s Castiel standing in the kitchen, by the coffee maker.  And the simplest explanation is almost always the correct one, Dean is well aware.  But . . .  It’s Castiel.  And more than that, a part of his life that he thought was over is suddenly making a reappearance.

When Castiel looks up, though, when blue eyes effortlessly find green, all doubt fades away.  Dean has never, in all of his life, seen anyone as thoroughly stripped raw as Cas is when he recognizes Dean.  His jaw drops, his eyes widen.  His Adam’s apple shifts in his throat, and that’s when Dean feels a tug low in his abdomen.  Cas’ neck is long and tan, and he blinks away thoughts of what it would look like with a slim strip of leather snapped into place.

This should be embarrassing.  He should pretend he didn’t see anything incriminating, or that he doesn’t care.  So he can’t really explain why his hand beckons Castiel over.

Castiel approaches with only a hint of hesitation, and the dark blood coursing through Dean’s veins appreciates that.  He stops when they’re mere inches apart, though he doesn’t speak.  This close, Dean viscerally feels their height difference, and, fuck, he really needs to pull himself together.

“I saw what was on your computer,” he says.  He means it to come out light and unconcerned, but there’s an underlying heat that he can’t quite hide.

“You said I should be more open-minded,” Castiel replies.  His right hand clenches into a tight fist, betraying his nerves, and it’s that _thing_ inside Dean that makes him reach out, and close both of his own hands around it.  His fingers press and pull, messaging away the tension and when he feels Cas yield to his touch he looks up to see Cas’ eyes trained firmly on the ground.

He hooks his index finger under Castiel’s chin, tilts his face until they’re eye-to-eye.  “Look at me,” he murmurs.  It’s clearly an internal struggle, but Castiel nods so Dean drops his hand.  “Don’t be ashamed.  If there’s anyone who can understand your curiosity, it’s me.” 

“What do you mean?”

He regards Castiel carefully.  There are only a handful of people that know about Dean’s secret.  About the life he had before Lisa.  Cassie and Bela, obviously.  Charlie, because Dean’s learned the hard way that she’s got a face that’s impossible to lie to.  And Benny, thanks to that weekend they spent in Miami, when too many tequila shots had loosened Dean’s lips like fucking Veritaserum.  But he trusts Cas, and he wants him to know.  “The BDSM thing.  I was a part of the scene, for a while.” 

Castiel, to his credit, does not look surprised – more curious than anything.  “In what . . . capacity?”

“In the ‘capacity’ of being a Dom.”  He waits for disgust to flood Castiel’s face, but it remains clear.  He continues.  “A few years ago I met a woman named Bela Talbot.  Gorgeous, sexy.  Kinda mean.  We weren’t, like, together or anything.  We hooked up a few times, strictly physical.  But it went on for a while, a couple of months, probably.  And we weren’t even friends, really, but we tried to keep it honest.  Not too hard, when feelings aren’t involved.  One night we were fooling around, and she told me she’d brought something that she wanted me to use on her.” 

“Use . . .”

“Handcuffs.”  Bela was just like that.  She was always one for knowing just what she wanted and had no qualms whatsoever about asking for it.  He was lucky, in a way, that she was his first foray into BDSM.  He’d never really pictured himself as a domineering sex partner, and Bela took the lead as often as not, and maybe because of that, he found himself willing to trust her.  She didn’t take shit from anyone.  She knew her limit, and Dean knew she wouldn’t let him hurt her.  Even with both hands bound he’d had no doubt she could take him down. 

Of course, it hadn’t come to that at all.  That night it was like Dean had found a part of him that he’d never known had existed, but was so intoxicating he couldn’t imagine how he had lived without it for so long.  Taking care of Bela, being there for someone who had no doubts that he knew what they needed and would provide it without hesitation.  Bela was so strong and self-reliant that watching her find an inner peace he’d never seen evidence of before on her face was . . . unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. 

He swallows as another very inappropriate picture of the man standing in front of him wiggles its way into his mind.  God, but Cas would be gorgeous, and though his clothes are baggy, they’re not so much so that he hasn’t been able to spot angles that make his fingers itch.  “I’m just saying, I understand why you’d be curious.”  He smirks.  “It definitely has its positive side.”

Cas looks away again, and Dean slowly shakes his head in rebuke.  “Nothing to be afraid of here,” he reminds him.  He doesn’t touch him again because he’s not sure he’d be able to stop.  This sudden, violent desire that grips him so unrelentingly has him completely thrown.  He can’t explain why he so wants Cas to be _his,_ to take him apart and put him back together again in a way that only _Dean_ can.  The low flame that had died down to embers has come surging up, growing into a forest fire and it’s like he can’t quite remember how to put it out. 

“What are these positives,” Castiel asks.  His voice is even, like he’s trying to sound unaffected, but there’s no misreading the flush that darkens his face.  And Dean wants to kiss him, step closer into his personal space and demonstrate the things that he should put into words.  Castiel unconsciously wets his lips.

There’s a gold ring, though, on Castiel’s left hand that reminds him of all the reasons he can’t do just that.  Lisa might be fine with it, but somehow he doubts Daphne would.  And he can fantasize all he wants, but really, there’s no guarantee that even Cas would be on board.  So he doesn’t push this any further, and, just for his own sanity, takes a step back.  “I’m sure it’s different for everyone.  I like taking care of people.  I always have.  So for me, getting someone to that point where you’re all they see, in that moment, all they _need._ It’s addictive.”  He studies Castiel.  “What the draw for you?”

Castiel’s jawline tenses up, and Dean expects him to look away.  He doesn’t.  (And Dean, for his own part, tries not to lose his mind at the wordless display of obedience.)  “I don’t know very much about it,” answers Castiel.  “Though based on what I’ve seen I think I’d appreciate having someone to take the responsibility out of my hands, for a while.  Not have to think all the time.” 

“And that’s a big part of it.  You know, Cas, if you think you’d be interested in this-” And Dean tells himself to stop talking, to change the end of that sentence, but he can’t.  “I could probably teach you.”  At Castiel’s wide-eyed shock, he rushes to elaborate.  “Not – for God’s sake – not like _teach_ you, teach you.  But I have some experience with it, obviously.  I could answer your questions, tell you what you’d need to know.  You’ll have a better idea about whether or not it’s up your alley.”

“I don’t think it would matter.”  Castiel sighs softly.  “I don’t think Daphne – I’m not sure would be wise to suggest something like this to my wife.  Not with everything else going on.” 

Dean may not know Castiel well, but even he can see how badly Castiel is fighting back his interest, pretending for reasons Dean cannot guess at.  Though, he hasn’t met Daphne, so for all he knows Castiel is right to conceal it.  But he’s not ready to throw in the towel so early.  “I gotta head to work,” he says.  He glances around quickly, and, catching sight of the pad and pen lying atop the kitchen counter, he steps into Castiel’s house, and strides over to retrieve them.  When he returns, he jots down his cell phone number.  “If you decide you have any questions, just shoot me a text.”  He opens his mouth to suggest some links to get the guy started, but closes it before he does.  He doesn’t want to overwhelm him so early. 

Castiel takes the paper from him, and folds it into a square before tucking it under his laptop.  “Thank you for the insight,” he says.  He tries to hide a small smile, but fails miserably.  “I doubt I’ll use it, but I know the offer came from a good place.”

Dean shrugs.  “No big deal.”  He turns to go, but remembers suddenly why he came over here in the first place.  “Oh, hey, so Ellen called me this morning.  Wanted me to get a message to you, since, as she put it, ‘That fool-headed boy still hasn’t gotten the house phone turned on, and his cell phone is never charged.’”

Castiel roll his eyes with fondness Dean can appreciate.  “She exaggerates.  My cellphone is often charged.  It’s not at the _moment,_ no, but I will set that right this afternoon.  What was the message?  Or was that it?”

“She wants you to go by the diner around lunchtime, if you can.  She wants to talk to you about something.”

“What,” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs.  “Beats me.  What do you want me to tell her?”

Castiel chews on his lower lip with a gusto that is, if Dean is being honest, incredibly distracting.  It’s hard to think when his teeth are itching to sink into such a plump and tempting mouth.  “I’ll be there,” he answers, after a beat.  He tilts his head at Dean curiously.  “It hasn’t even occurred to me to ask you, what is it that you do?  For a living, I mean.”

“Nothing glamorous.  I manage a furniture store in town.”  Dean should be proud of his job.  He started at the very bottom, a seasonal position in sales, and worked his way up with determination and hard work.  He put in more hours than anyone else until there was really no choice _but_ to promote him, and management isn’t something most people would turn their nose up at.  But it’s not a job he’s ever really enjoyed, and sometimes, when he thinks on it too long he finds himself wondering how he ended up there at all. 

He can’t sure what gives him away but Castiel’s expression slides into concern within the span of a heartbeat.  “You don’t like your job,” he asks gently. 

“It’s fine,” he snaps back.  The way he has every time Sam has posed this question to him.  And it’s not that he resents it, exactly, because he gets that Sam is like a dog with a bone about things like this, about his brother’s _happiness_ or whatever, it’s just that it’s the same crap over and over again.  A circular stream of dialogue that never reaches a satisfying conclusion.  Okay, so this isn’t the career he was envisioning when he was younger, but it pays the bills.  It keeps the house his mother left to him from ending up in the greedy hands of some asshole with cash to burn and no respect for the generations of Dean’s family – _Mary’s_ family – that have held onto this property, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”  Castiel looks struck and Dean wants to kick himself – his hang ups are not Castiel’s fault, and it’s not as if he could have known this was already a sensitive subject.  “I shouldn’t have pried.”

Dean waves it off, aiming for casual, though he’s unsure whether or not he hits the mark.  “No need to be sorry.  I’ve got to go though.”

“Of course.”  His face turns another delicious shade of scarlet, eyes flickering to the ground, then back up to meet Dean’s.  “Thank you.  For your advisement today.”

“Not a problem,” Dean tells him.  He smiles, then reaches out to close his hand around Castiel’s forearm.  He means it as a gesture of camaraderie, but it stays in place a beat too long.  “Don’t forget what I said.  And charge your damn phone,” he adds, allowing just a sliver of the voice he used Before to slide in.  Just because he can’t resist. 

Castiel’s back straightens automatically and he nods once, and God fucking _dammit_ he is going to be the death of Dean.  Dean takes a deep breath before he turns to go and has to hope that Castiel doesn’t notice. 

And if he’s grinning a little to himself on the drive into work, well no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting and leaving kudos. Y'all really, really make my day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Had some personal stuff going on, and plus this one was a tough one to get right. Thanks for being so patient.

Castiel lets out a long breath as he watches Dean’s retreating back.  There’s an inclination rising up in him to call him back, but he keeps the words locked up tight behind his teeth.  He’s let the morning go to his head enough already, as it is, and it’s not as though he’s actually considering putting any of this information to use.  It was an interesting discussion, and he’s glad to learn he was wrong about the practice of BDSM, but though Dean’s offer was kind, Castiel isn’t going to take him up on it.  Even Castiel knows that there are some things you can’t ask of a friend. 

He gathers up his things from outside and carries them into the house, dropping them unceremoniously onto the couch, before returning to the kitchen and taking another swallow of steaming hot coffee.  He glances at the microwave to check the time, then frowns.  It’s still relatively early, still plenty of time to get to the Roadhouse, but Daphne should have called him a half hour ago to tell him she was on the road. 

His eyes immediately search the room, but there’s no sign of his cellphone anywhere.  Strange, since he could have sworn he left it on the table last night.  A chill travels up his spine. 

_“Daphne, you were supposed to call me when you were on the way,” he said to her, cradling his office phone against his shoulder.  “I was getting worried.  That tire is a menace to you and all the other drivers on the road.”_

_Daphne’s warm laugh echoed back from the other end of the line.  “Your cellphone’s dead.  Don’t blame me.  And you didn’t answer this number the first time.”_

_Now that he was thinking about it, he did seem to recall that his office phone_ was _ringing when Dr. Palmer had stopped by.  But Dr. Palmer was getting up there in years, and Castiel hadn’t wanted to interrupt the conversation.  “Alright, I suppose I can’t argue that.”_

_“Where is your cellphone, anyway?  You have a charger there, don’t you?”_

Castiel blinks and shakes the thoughts away.  No, he is _not_ going to start thinking about that day again, not after the night he had.  Which is why he pretends that it’s nothing more than guesswork that leads him to check his trench coat pocket.  When he finds it there, he also pretends that he doesn’t notice that it’s been months since he’s even worn that coat.

*

He plugs in his cellphone and while it charges he listens to his voicemail.  Just as he suspected, there’s one from his wife, who cheerfully tells him that she’s on the way, and that she’ll call him again when she gets halfway.  She teases him about his phone’s dead battery, but he can hear the undercurrent of true tension. 

He dials her number. 

“Hey,” she greets when she answers the call.  In the background he hears her turn down the radio.  “I was just thinking about you.”

He tries to smile, but he doesn’t have it in him.  Everything is _fine,_ but there’s still a knot in the pit of his stomach that won’t lessen.  He scratches his eyebrow, swallows hard.  “I’m sorry I missed your call.”  He doesn’t elaborate, too mindful of the evenings when the nightmares have woken her.  He’s not sure, but thinks there’s a good chance the information would make her unnecessarily nervous.  “I just wanted to make sure you were on the way.  Have you hit any traffic?” 

They chat for a while, and by the time he hangs up again he’s feeling better.  Daphne isn’t in any danger, obviously, so this paranoia that has seeped into his blood is unfounded.  He’s allowed his imagination to run away with him, when he’s supposed to be on vacation, and he hasn’t even been in town for twenty-four hours yet.

He gives himself a firm mental shake, and goes upstairs to shower.

*

The Roadhouse is in the middle of the lunch rush when Castiel steps inside, and as his eyes search the room for a table, Ellen bustles by, carrying a tray of drinks.  The moment she sees him, she halts, full stop, and he can’t help but appreciate the way she balances them so easily that they don’t splash over the sides. 

When she doesn’t move for several seconds, Castiel narrows his eyes at her.  “Are you alright,” he asks, cocking his head to the side concernedly.  “Dean said you wanted to talk to me?”

His question seems to bring her to her senses, and she blinks quickly, and smiles.  “Of course I am, darlin’,” she assures him.  She uses her spare hand to gesture to the back of the diner.  “Why don’t you go have a seat?  There are some tables free over there, I think.  I’ll join you as soon as it slows down.”  
  
Mystified, Castiel doesn’t answer beyond a stilted nod. 

“Anything to drink while you’re waiting?”

“A lemonade?”

She taps her temple in acknowledgement before turning away, and Castiel treads carefully in the direction she indicated.  He manages to make it to a booth without slamming into any of the other patrons, but the business man carrying a briefcase does create a close call.  He slides into place, but not without shooting the careless man a dark look. 

He glances around curiously, wondering if Jo’s working a shift this afternoon, but there’s no sign of her.  He gives the menu a cursory once-over, but he knows it by heart, and Ellen hasn’t changed it for as long as he’s been coming here.  She appears once more, materializing at the end of the table, and passes him his drink before vanishing into the crowd.  He withdraws his cellphone from his pocket, if for no other reason than to keep his hands occupied.  He pulls up his contacts without full awareness of his actions and his eyes fall, almost predictably, to Dean’s number.  He programmed it in before he left the house, and finds a strange amount of comfort in its presence.  It’s not as though he’s considering revisiting their previous conversation, but he finds himself mulling over what he might say, if he were to send a text.  Certainly it’s perfectly normal to talk to one’s friends throughout the day, and it’s going to be a long summer if he doesn’t solidify some relationships while he’s here. 

He pushes down an unexplainable flutter of uncertainty, and composes a short message:

_My wife will be arriving in town this evening.  Perhaps you and Lisa would like to join us for a late dinner?  I am not as established with a grill, but my desserts have been known to please even the toughest of critics._

He hits send before he can second-guess himself for a third time.  He puts his phone on the table and straightens, flushing hotly.  When Ellen appears a few minutes later, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Castiel,” she says, sliding into the seat across from him.  He offers her a smile, but she doesn’t try to match it.  Her face is deathly serious.  “I know it’s a little crazy in here, but I wanted to see you as early as possible.”

Castiel frowns and furrows his eyebrows in confusion.  “Ellen, what’s going on,” he asks gently.  “Is this about Jo?”

Ellen shakes her head, looking away.  But then she meets his gaze determinedly and clears her throat.  “It’s about . . .  I need to ask you some questions about the fire.”

All the air rushes out of him in one breath and he goes completely still.  “Questions about the fire,” he repeats blankly.  “I’m not sure I understand.  Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”  Her tone is flat, no room for argument, and Castiel’s confusion grows tenfold.  “It’s for your own good.  I know how it sounds, believe me, but I need you to trust me on this.”

“I’d trust you with my life,” he says, and it’s true.  Though they share no blood, Ellen is his family, and there’s never been anything in the world that Castiel has valued or treasured more than his family.  Faith in Ellen has never steered him wrong before, and he offers it again, now. 

His stomach ties up in knots as red flames dance behind his eyes, but there’s a small part of him that _wants_ to talk about it, purge it from his system.  Lay it to rest in the last way he can.  He drinks some of his lemonade, and then nods for Ellen to go ahead.

Ellen lays her arms on the table, and gazes up at him with the unflinching wisdom that her eyes have always held, but there’s something else there too, something not quite so easily identifiable.  It’s as though, right then, he thinks that she might believe him, if he were to tell he the truth, the side he had hid from the fire department and the police.  Daphne, herself, had doubted his insistences, had been furious each time he brought them up, so he’s more than a little startled when Ellen begins, “The first thing I want to ask you is if you noticed anything strange that day.”

Castiel frowns down at his hands.  “What do you mean?”

“I think you know,” Ellen says.  “Anything strange.  Maybe flickering lights?  Or strange smells?”

He raises his eyebrows, almost asks where these questions are coming from, before remember Ellen’s contingency.  “No, neither-“ he starts, but then a memory comes surging to the forefront of his mind, discarded months ago because it hadn’t seemed important – certainly not to the police, whose questions remained various versions of _Did you notice anyone loitering outside that shouldn’t have been there?_

Ellen’s eyes immediately narrow, and she clenches her jaw.  “What is it, Castiel?”

“A few minutes before the fire, the lights in my office flickered.”

“ _Your_ office,” Ellen repeats, with surprise.  Her eyebrows furrow, and as he meets her eyes he gets the distinct impression that she’s looking at him as though she’s never seen him before, like he just grew fifty feet in front of her, or sprouted wings, all of a sudden.  “You’re sure?”

Castiel nods.  “Very.  I remember thinking that it was strange, since I had just replaced all the bulbs.  But they said that the fire was the result of an electrical malfunction, so I suppose things like that happen.”  He keeps his tone carefully even and looks way.

“Somehow I doubt it,” Ellen replies. 

He swivels his gaze to her and he knows, in that instant, that Ellen isn’t interested in the things that the authorities were.  A word he’s tried to ignore starts forming in the forefront of his mind, and he wants, badly, to say it, to get a reaction from someone that wouldn’t start doubting his sanity.  But Ellen very clearly thinks that she can somehow keep him separate from whatever it is that actually happened with the fire and there’s a small, cowardly part of him that wants to feign innocence.  So all he says is a nonchalant, “It was a very strange evening.”

He can feel Ellen’s interest spike.  “In what way?”

“It, uh.”  He inhales slowly.  “It got cold.  Very cold, in my office.”  He doesn’t mention his fears about the night before and his phone.  The truth is that those events could be chalked up to simple coincidence.  “And I thought I heard a voice.”

“A voice?  What voice?”

“It was a woman’s voice, I’m sure of it.  But I didn’t recognize it.”

“And what did the voice say,” Ellen calmly asks.  He can’t help but be impressed by her easy acceptance of a story he’s mocked _himself_ for, several times since, and once again he’s struck by how much he loves this woman. 

So it’s with a lot of guilt that he lies, “I couldn’t understand.”

It wouldn’t make a difference anyway, he reassures himself as Ellen nods understandingly. 

She drums her fingers against the table, expression growing thoughtful.  “You . . .  Look, there’s no easy way to ask this, so I’m just going to say it.  Castiel, you wouldn’t happen to have any idea why someone might want to kill you, do you?”

“Of course not,” Castiel answers.  And it’s true.  He’s never really had issues with any of his students, and the year’s end faculty reports showed his to be one of the preferred classes.  Of course, it helped that his wasn’t a prerequisite to anything else, so those who signed up were typically those who already had some interest in the subject.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because someone set that fire,” Ellen whispers quietly, voice going urgent.

Fear seizes him; his mouth goes dry.  “How can you know that, for sure?”

Ellen eyes him sadly.  “It’s something of a hobby of mine, these types of crimes.”

“What type of crimes,” he can’t help but demand.

“I thought you were going to trust me.”

Castiel lets out a frustrated breath and tries to remember that all of this is because Ellen wants to help.  And considering how little he knows, it’s probably best to defer to her.  “I apologize.”  Castiel studies his drink for a long moment, fiddles with the straw.  “I’m just worried.  I don’t particularly want to die, just yet.”  He offers her a half-hearted smile, but it’s one she returns broadly. 

“You need keep your sense of humor up,” she encourages.  “And I know how this is going to sound, too, but try not to get too wrapped up in obsessing about the past.  I’ve got people working on this, and the only thing you can do to help is keep your phone _charged_ and answer whatever questions I bring to later as honestly as you can.  Can you do that for me?”

He tries not to visibly shift in his seat.  “Of course.” 

“Good,” says Ellen.  “Now, before I get back to the horde, one last question.  Is there anything else about that day that might have seemed off?”

“Not that comes to mind.” 

“Alright, well if you’re sure, I’m going to get back on the floor.  Thank you for coming down here, Castiel, you’ve been a lot of help.”  He’s not sure how that’s possible, but he accepts the compliment without argument.  “Anything to eat?”

He shakes his head with a grateful smile.  “No, thank you.  I should be going.”  He pulls out his wallet to pay for his drink, but Ellen waves it away. 

“You try to pay me for that three dollar lemonade, and I might just have to slap you upside the head.”  She takes his hand, though, and gives it a squeeze.  “Hang in there.  And call me if you need me.”

Once she’s gone, he takes his cellphone in hand, and taps it to life.  He’s going to call Hannah, he decides, but the text on the screen distracts him. 

_Sure, man, sounds good.  Want us to bring anything?  There’s not a lot I won’t do for free pie._

The uneasy feeling that’s been in the pit of his stomach since the beginning of his conversation with Ellen lessens its tight grip and despite himself, he feel the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement.  He types back a quick message:  _No offering required.  Cherry or pecan?_

A response comes almost immediately. 

_Pecan, obviously.  Heathen._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lateness again. Last time it was personal problems, and this time I nearly died in a car accident (car vs. moped rarely works out well for the moped driver). And, thanks to the accident, my laptop got smashed and destroyed, and I'd already typed up half of this chapter. But I messed with it yesterday, and was able to get it on long enough to send what I'd written to myself, and complete the chapter. Anyway, thanks for being patient. We're finally back on track.

Dean’s beat by the time he finally gets to take his lunch break. Between the delivery that wound up at the wrong address and the new girl who didn’t show up for her shift, he’s been running himself ragged, answering pages all day. Not that he doesn’t like being busy, but there are lines, after all. 

As he waits on his burger to reheat he checks his phone and sees that there’s a voicemail and a text message. He listens to the voicemail first, and rolls his eyes as Sam gives a very long-winded explanation for not calling him back the day before. As far as Dean can understand it, it all seems to involve an ill-timed shove, and Sam’s phone at the bottom of his pool, but it’s kind of hard to tell, in between Sam’s panting breaths. He seems to have decided to call Dean during his morning run.

Dean shakes his head when the message comes to an end, and deletes it. He’ll call his brother when he gets off work, and listen to his self-flagellation then. He pulls up the text, and feels a little jolt of surprise at the number. It’s not one he recognizes, but he is pretty sure he has a good idea who it is.

He’s right.

He silently reads and rereads the message. Not exactly what he was expecting, but he can’t deny that his interest is officially piqued. He’s been curious about Daphne since Cas first mentioned her, and so he types up a quick response, confirming the plans. Lisa’s seeing a movie with her friend Desiree, but she should be done in time to join them a little late, and Dean knows that she’ll want to meet Daphne.

His phone beeps again, another message from Cas, this time complete with pie options. They both sound great, but he chooses pecan, if for no other reason than he can’t remember the last time he had one that could compete with his own. Dean’s just not one for putting a lot of effort into a meal just for himself and Lisa’s not much of a dessert person.

He waits to see if Cas is going to message him again, but nothing comes through so he pulls his food from the microwave, and the damn thing looks as delectable as it did the night before. He grabs some condiments from the fridge – they belong to Victor, but the guy still owes Dean for picking up his shift last week, so it’s not as though he’s going to say anything – and settles into a chair to eat. 

His phone goes off again as he’s finishing up his meal, and he nearly rolls his eyes when he sees the name on the screen. 

“For God’s sake, Sam, I get it,” he groans in greeting. “You’re sorry. Jesus, it’s like you ditched me on prom night or something.”

Even from twenty miles away, he can _feel_ the bitchface that Sam shoots him. “Shut up. I’m not calling to apologize.”

Dean blinks in surprise at the sharp tone, and arches his eyebrows. “Wow, don’t we sound like we’re in a good mood today? What’s up your ass?”

Sam takes a breath, and his next words come out sounding marginally less irritated. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You going to have some free time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem,” Dean answers. “Anything wrong?”

“I don’t _think_ so,” says Sam, which does not actually make Dean feel any better. His brother seems to sense this, and chuckles, if a little bitterly. “Look, it’s really not a big deal. I just . . . You remember that family tree thing I was putting together?”

Of course Dean remembers. In fact, the memory of it still stings a bit at times. It was supposed to be a Mother’s Day present for Mary, but she died a few weeks before the holiday rolled around and this is the first time that Sam has brought it up since. “Yeah, why? Find some skeletons in our closet?”

“You might say that.” Sam pauses. “Have you ever heard of the Men of Letters?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, when I see you tomorrow you’re going to get a history lesson, so drink whatever coffee you're going to need to stay awake.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Dean says wryly. “What time did you want to come by? I’ll be off, so.”

Sam makes a soft sound of consideration. In the background Dean can hear him sifting through pages of paper. “One o’clock work for you? We could get lunch and then head back to the house to talk.”

Dean shrugs. “That’s fine.” There’s a brief lull in the conversation, so he adds, “Oh, someone rented the blue house, finally.”

“Oh yeah? When did that happen?”

“Yesterday. I met the guy when he was moving in.”

“What’s he like,” Sam asks.

Dean thinks about Castiel and grins. He thinks about his smile, about his eyes, and the low timber of his voice. About this morning and the unlikely internet search, though he gets the impression that these are not necessarily the kind of details Sam is asking for. “Nice guy,” is what he settles on. “A little weird, but who isn’t?”

Sam chuckles. “Ain’t that the truth,” he says.

They hang up a couple of minutes later, when Dean’s break ends and Dean shoots a quick text to Lisa, telling her about Cas’ message, and returns to the sales floor.

They’re rarely busy on Wednesday afternoons, a fact Dean is reminded of when he scans the room and finds the store empty, aside from Alfie Jacobson – the lone sales associate – and one customer. Who, upon closer inspection, is not a customer at all. 

“Ellen,” Dean calls, crossing the room to join her by the sofas. She looks up as he approaches, and though she gives him a smile, it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her arms are folded in front of her chest, her back straight and shoulders set. A flicker of worry sparks in Dean.

“Dean.” She pulls him into a tight embrace. “Sorry to come up to your work like this. I have an appointment soon, and I had to speak with you beforehand. I thought I might catch you for lunch, but Alfie told me your break was already over.”

Dean shakes his head as they pull away. “It’s okay. Is everything alright?”

Ellen frowns, and as she looks at him he gets the distinct impression that she’s trying to reach into his mind to assess him. For what, he doesn’t know. “Everything’s fine,” she tells him. With a quick glance at Alfie, who is standing a few feet away, she wraps her hand around his wrist and leads him in the opposite direction. “I’m actually here to talk to you about your neighbor.”

“Cas,” Dean asks, stunned. 

“So you’ve met him already?”

“Yeah, yesterday. Why? What’s up?”

She hesitates before saying, “I might be going out of town for a few days, and I’d like you to keep an eye on him.”

Dean stares in bewilderment. “Keep an eye on him? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” Ellen says a bit too quickly. “It’s just . . . he hasn’t been here in a long time, and I’d like to see that young man make some friends. And I won’t be here to make sure he’s getting his meals and not getting lost. He has a terrible sense of direction.”

“He told me and Daphne he lived here before.”

“Dean,” Ellen snaps. “Can you not just do what I ask, please?”

“Yeah, Ellen, of course,” Dean says guiltily. “Sorry.” He looks away, rubbing his neck, until he hears her deep sigh.

“I’m sorry.” She looks away, swallows, takes a deep breath. “Look, it’s not something I can get into right now, but I have my reasons for worrying.” When he gives her another blank look, she continues, “Alright, let me put it like this. You sell furniture, right?”

“Yeah, apparently.”

“Well, let’s say you’ve got a friend that you like a lot. You’ve been friends with this person for a while, and they tell you that they were robbed. And because of that, they need to buy a new couch. Now, you hate that they’re going to have to buy a new couch because it means that they were robbed, but does that mean that you turn them away at the door? Of course not. You help them, regardless. They have to have a couch. And if they’re going to have to buy a couch anyway, wouldn’t you rather that you be the one to sell it to them?” Ellen sighs solemnly. “You can trust yourself. Suppose someone else came along, someone that cared more about the sale than making sure that your friend end up in something they liked.” Dean’s not sure what his expression shows, but Ellen flips her eyes up to the ceiling in frustration. “I know this doesn’t make much sense, but you’ve got to trust me on this one, Dean.”

That’s the crux of it all, and Dean inwardly flinches at the pleading note in her tone. He lays his hands on her should and nods seriously. “Whatever you need.”

*

By the time Dean gets off of work, he’s exhausted and a little irritable.

It’s instinct more than anything else that makes him cast a quick glance over at Cas’ house, and when his eyes fall to the driveway and, more specifically, the station wagon parked there, he stops and stares. Daphne must have made it, and though he’s glad for Cas, he feels a nugget of . . . something. Like a sinking in his gut.

He blinks himself out of his daze, and shuts his door.

The house is dark when he walks inside, so he turns on a lamp in the living room and the overhead in the kitchen before pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists off the cap and tosses it into the trash. He closes his eyes, appreciating the silence of the otherwise empty house. He does love living with Lisa, but there are times that he prefers being left alone to his thoughts. 

When he finishes his beer, he places the bottle on the counter, and trudges reluctantly to the hallway. 

The attic door doesn’t speak, of course, and yet somehow it seems to mock him, reminding him of all the work he’s been avoiding, and how much there still is to do. He’d known all along that going though his mother’s things in the house she grew up in going to be a tough undertaking, but it still takes him off guard how much it hurts each time he stumbles on something that belonged to a young Mary Campbell. There are pictures too, albums full, and he’s lost more time than he cares to admit drinking in long blond hair and bright eyes. 

But he hasn’t been able to bring himself to enter the attic yet. When her parents died, Mary returned to the house alone, and packed up most of their things, so there are still piles of boxes awaiting him. He groans inwardly, and, grasping hold of the string hanging from the door, he pulls down the stairs, carefully unfolding them so that they don’t scratch the hardwood floor. He’s not sure why he’s chosen now to do this, but he guesses that it doesn’t really matter.

It’s not a large attic. Dean has to bend slightly at the waist to avoid braining his head on the ceiling, and he sneezes twice, upsetting the dust caked up on the beams. His steps are slow and careful as he makes his way to the first pair of boxes he sees. He drags them to the top of the stairs and then balances them in his arms as he exits the attic.

The door bangs loudly against the ceiling as he makes his way to the dining room, dropping the boxes onto the table. He flinches at the cloud of dust that puffs out into the air, then steps back to examine the words scrawled onto the sides in black marker: _Deanna Campbell – Journals_. He immediately makes a face and shoves it away. He’ll have time to peruse what will inevitably turn out to be sewing patterns or some shit later. He highly doubts that the pages contain anything more exciting than a recipe for lasagna. 

He cocks his head to examine the side of the other box, and feels a sharp jolt resonate through his body as he reads _M.O.L._

Men of Letters.

Which is . . . well, one hell of a coincidence. Sam talks about it to Dean like it’s a secret society, and then Dean finds a box of stuff pertaining to that very secret society a couple of hours later? 

He uses his car keys to slice into the masking tape, and is reaching for the flaps to open it when his cellphone beeps.

 _I know it’s somewhat earlier than we discussed,_ he reads silently, _but if you would like to join us now, you’re more than welcome._

He doesn’t have to check the name to know who the text is from, and despite Ellen’s chilling words from earlier, he smiles to himself as he types out a reply: _Miss me already?_

Another message comes through before he can pocket his phone:

_Are you coming or not?_


	7. Chapter 7

Daphne walks into the house, and Castiel finally exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The meeting with Ellen stirred up memories he had hoped to bury, and the long and quiet afternoon left him too much time to think on the past. Eventually he meandered down to the beach and let the breeze wafting off the ocean clear his head, but it hadn’t been enough to truly soothe him. He’s too unsettled. 

But seeing his wife healthy and unharmed gives him solace, and he strides over to her to wrap his arms around her waist. He kisses her gently before he so much as says hello. 

Daphne gives a startled but pleased chuckle as she pulls away. “Such a welcome.” Then the smile drops away from her face as she takes a step back to regard him more closely. “Is everything alright,” she asks, a sliver of fear creeping into her voice.

Castiel forces a laugh and inwardly chastises himself for his dreadful poker face. “Of course,” he lies, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief when she drops it without further comment. 

Together they bring in her suitcase and the last of the boxes, as he fills her in on the only information he can share: Dean and Lisa.

“I know you’ll like them,” he says as he finishes relating most of the details he remembers about the night before, pulling a recipe book from a box full of them, and setting it in one of the kitchen cabinets. “They’re different from our usual friends, but they’re good people.”

Daphne gives him a strange look. “Different how,” she asks.

Immediately Castiel has the feeling that he’s missed a step somewhere, but he ignores it. “Just different.” He deliberates quickly but ultimately decides not to mention the tension from dinner the night before, or the cause of it. He doesn’t think of Daphne as closed-minded or judgemental, but he has a pretty good idea of what she would think if she knew what it was, exactly, that he and Dean bonded over. 

“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting them,” she eventually says. “They must be something else to get such a glowing review from you already.”

“I was thinking of inviting them over for dinner tonight.” He flinches at the technical lie, but he has the impression that telling her that it’s already a plan would be a mistake. He steals a quick look at her to gauge her reaction, and thankfully she doesn’t seem annoyed. In fact, she almost seems . . . glad. 

“That sounds like a great idea.”

While he stacks the boxes in the far corner of the kitchen, she carries the suitcase into their bedroom. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of wire hangers jostling in the closet as she hangs her clothes, and then, a while later, she returns, her face drawn with uncertainty, her arms crossed over her chest. It’s a stance he recognizes from the last few weeks, one he hopes that will dissolve over time here. He tilts his head at her, and steps forward. He knows what’s coming, but asks, anyway, “Daphne, something wrong?”

She picks at her fingernails. “We haven’t talked about the sleeping arrangements,” she begins. “I didn’t know what you were expecting, but I think I’m going to need some time to get comfortable with the idea of sharing a bed again.”

Castiel nods, offering her a supportive smile. He’s not surprised, he had known that Charleston wouldn’t be a magic cure-all for their problems, and the therapist back in Virginia had told him not to expect her to change overnight.

Which he hadn’t, and he doesn’t. He’s happy to be as patient as he needs to be because at least he understands where her discomfort is coming from. Though Castiel was not injured the night of the fire, Daphne was not so lucky, sustaining multiple burn wounds to her back and shoulders, and though she’s never said so outright, he gets the impression that she is ashamed of them. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t love her for her appearance, but he wouldn’t consider making light of her pain. His reassurances in the past have done nothing but make her defensive, and he doesn’t want to start out their vacation at odds.

“That’s fine,” he tells her gently. “I can sleep in one of the spare bedrooms.”

She gives him a look with such open relief that it soothes his ruffled feathers. “Thank you for understanding. I know it can’t have been easy for you either these last couple of months.” She pauses. “I’ve heard you, you know. The nightmares.”

He tenses up but tries not to show it. “Well, it was a fire,” he says. “It would probably be strange if I wasn’t having nightmares.”

“I know, I just . . . I’m worried about you. You know you were always welcome to join me in therapy, right? I don’t like to think of you going through this on your own. I’m here for you, but. . .” The rest go unsaid but Castiel can read between the lines. I’m here for you, but I can barely help myself, let alone another person.

Castiel gives her a warm smile. “There’s nothing to be worried about. The dreams will pass. I’m sorry if they’ve been keeping you up.”

“It’s alright. Believe me, I understand.” She clears her throat and Castiel already knows where this is going. Another argument that they cycled through constantly back in Virginia. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”

“No.” It comes out sharp, perhaps, but he’s too tired to go through this again today. He’s glad that Daphne found solace and comfort in confessing her fears to her therapist, but there is nothing about that that appeals to Castiel. That’s never been his way, unloading on people he doesn’t know, can’t be certain he can trust. There’s no denying that he’s having a tough time since the fire, but complaining to some man or woman charging two hundred dollars an hour just doesn’t appeal to him. What good would talking do anyway?

He watches the anger spring to life in her fair face before she turns away, concealing it from his view. But he knows her well enough to know that it’ll be an hour before the lines smooth completely, and he finds himself withdrawing his cellphone and staring at the blank screen. It’s earlier than he planned, but dinner is going to be an easy one tonight, and the pie is ready to go in the oven to be baked. 

He brings up his messages and thumbs over the letters, typing out a swift text to Dean. He gets a reply almost immediately and grows a little warm as he reads. Dean’s effortless flirting doesn’t come as quite a shock anymore but there’s still a strange rush that floods him when it happens. He smiles and tries to find it ridiculous and juvenile, but knows he doesn’t pull it off. 

He clears his throat and says to Daphne, “So, Dean and Lisa should be here soon. Is that fine?” He skips over mentioning the time he originally had in mind. 

As he expected, the ice on his wife’s face thaws slightly at the mention of impending company. “Of course. I’ll go change.”

*

When Dean arrives a few minutes later, Castiel is standing over the oven, wooden spoon in hand. The sauce is simmering on a burner. He glances over his shoulder when the back door opens, and he gives Dean as relaxed a smile as he can muster. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. 

Dean grins back but his eyebrows raise slightly as he gives Castiel a closer look. He steps closer and pitches his voice low. “Everything okay?”

“Of course.” Castiel turns away under the pretense of stirring the sauce and says a little prayer that Dean doesn’t pursue the subject further. All he wants at this moment is to enjoy a quiet evening with his wife and neighbor. “Where’s Lisa,” he asks.

Thankfully, Dean doesn’t push. “At a movie with a friend of hers. She’ll be over later.” He pauses as his eyes fall on the clock hanging above the refrigerator. “Or maybe not, since we’re meeting earlier than we said.”

“Sorry about that,” Castiel mutters. He ticks his eyes over to the hallway, and when Daphne doesn’t appear he continues, “It’s just . . .” And that’s when he realizes there’s no way to explain it so that Dean will understand, primarily because Castiel doesn’t understand it himself. His and Daphne’s marriage hasn’t been good in quite a while, before the fire, and before, when irritated, heavy silence stretched between them the last thing he wanted was to invite someone into their home. So he can’t be sure what possessed him to extend an earlier invitation to Dean, like it’s his job to rescue Castiel from the tension.

Dean watches him for heartbeats that last too long until there’s the sudden sound of footsteps and Daphne walks into the room.

She halts when she catches sight of Dean, and she doesn’t plaster on a smile fast enough. “Hello, you must be Dean,” she says, extending a hand for him to shake.

He does, grasping it with his much larger one. “It’s nice to meet you, Daphne. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she replies. “Will Lisa be joining us?”

As Dean and his wife talk, Castiel busies himself with dinner, lowering the temperature of the boiling spaghetti noodles and adding spices to the sauce when he thinks he needs to. The soft hum of their voices soothe his inner turmoil until it’s nothing more than background noise. 

*

“Well, I’ve got to say, Cas, I’m pleasantly surprised,” Dean comments later, as he scoops the last of his spaghetti onto his fork. “This dinner was definitely more edible than you were making it out to be.”

Castiel smiles wryly. “Such praise,” he teases back. “I’m glad to hear it. Daphne and I spent a lot of time in Virginia working so we never really had time to perfect our culinary skills.”

“You can hardly tell at all.”

Daphne laughs and the sound is so pleasant that Castiel can’t help but glance over at her, and the sight that awaits him pulls all the good humor right out of him. Daphne’s eyes are bright, her cheeks are flushed. There’s a sluggishness in the way that she lifts her glass, the way it tips, just slightly, to the side. There’s not enough wine left inside to spill onto the tablecloth, which is a relief but Daphne seems to notice at the same time he does, and reaches for the wine bottle they left on the table. He tries to ignore the feelings of shame that squeeze his insides as he looks away from his wife to find Dean watching him, much too carefully. Intelligent green eyes translate the scene with ease and Castiel pretends he doesn’t notice.

It’s tempting, the inclination to intervene, but knows there’s nothing he can say that will keep Daphne from refilling her glass until the bottle is empty, and trying to convince her to do anything else will result in one of those arguments he’s been so strenuously avoiding. He can’t even be completely sure how many glasses she’s had. He wonders, with a twinge of guilt, how long it’s been since he looked her way. 

He knew this was a possibility when he bought the wine, but Daphne had assured him so many times that there was nothing to fear, that she had it under control now, that he’d decided to give it another try. Now he feels like an idiot and more than that, his wife . . . 

His wife looks like she’s going to be sick. 

Castiel is on his feet in an instant and ignores the startled expression on Dean’s face as he clasps his arm around Daphne’s elbow and gently guides her to her feet. He says a quick prayer of gratitude that she doesn’t protest as he steers her to the master bathroom and without a word she immediately empties the contents of her stomach. He stands behind her, rubbing slow circles into her back as she gives a final, feeble cough. 

She straightens and he sighs, brushing tear tracks from her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She chokes on a dry sob, and drops her head against his chest. “I thought I’d be fine. I had a glass at my parents’ last night and I didn’t have a problem stopping.”

“Daphne, it’s alright.” He takes a step back, squeezing her shoulder to reassure her, and turns to grab a washcloth that he then soaks, wrings out, and finally places against Daphne’s neck. She breathes out shakily at the cold compress but doesn’t pull away. 

For several seconds there’s utter silence until Daphne asks so quietly he almost misses it, “Do you hate me?”

He shakes his head firmly, pulling back to look her straight in the eye. “Of course not.” He gives her a soft smile. “You’d have to try much harder than that.” He presses a kiss to the apple of her cheek and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Would you . . . I’d like to go to bed, I think. Would you mind making excuses to Dean for me?”

“No, I understand. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Castiel.” She pulls back the covers, sliding beneath them without bothering to change. She pauses a beat then adds hastily, “Also, throw out all the alcohol, if you would. Just in case.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

He shuts off the light as he closes the door and then he leans back against it to just breathe. He counts to ten, like he learned to do before, and when he looks up, he sees Dean watching him. 

He approaches him and forces a smile into place. “I’m sorry about this,” he says, once he’s close, “but we’re going to have to cut the evening short.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says. “Is Daphne going to be okay?”

“She’ll be fine.” Castiel steps around Dean and begins to clean up the dishes, and he can’t quite curb the instinct to shove them harder than necessary into the sink. The resulting clatter of noise is only a little satisfying. 

His breath catches when he feels hands rest on his shoulders, heavy and warm. He can’t find the courage to turn, but he doesn’t ask Dean to stop the way he should either, and the hands begin to kneed.

His head drops forward of its own accord as Dean works at the knots in his shoulders and when his fingers move to Castiel’s neck a shiver shoots up his spine. He can’t muffle a low groan. Dean makes an inquiring noise, and Castiel answers, half-mumbling, “Feels good. I’m sorry about tonight, Dean.”

Dean tsks. “Don’t worry about it.”

“She doesn’t typically drink that much. It’s the stress, I think, the move.”

“I said not to worry about it,” Dean says, just a little sharper. “It’s not a problem. I had a good time tonight.” Castiel detects a smirk. “Even if I didn’t get the pie I was promised.”

Castiel immediately tries to turn to prepare the man a plate to take with him, but Dean’s hands tighten, keeping him rooted to the spot. “Don’t move,” Dean mutters, and . . . 

And it may be Castiel’s imagination, but it sounds like an order.

So he doesn’t. He lets himself get lost in the feel of Dean’s touch for minutes that seem to stretch on as his eyes slip shut and he’s not sure how long it is before he feels Dean shift closer, so that his breath comes out in short puffs directly against Castiel’s neck. When Dean’s nose nudges the curve of his ear he shivers, a surge of arousal washing over him with the force of a tidal wave. 

Dean swallows thickly behind him. “Want me to stop,” he asks, voice pitched low so it doesn’t carry.

“No.” The word’s punched out of him before he can stop it and then the solid line of Dean’s chest is pressed against his back, and Dean’s hands fall to his hips. 

“I don’t have to.” Hands slip just below his shirt, fingertips dancing teasingly along the waist of his jeans. “If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

In that moment, it is. Want thrums through him in a very physical way, and he’s never been with a man, never given it thought, but, God, he wants to.

But it’s not that simple. It never is, he’s starting to learn, and he manages to shake his head minutely, enough that Dean seems to register it because he finally backs away. 

They stare at each other for a long time, Dean’s eyes dark and hungry, and Castiel supposes his look the same. His stomach flips and turns and reminds him suddenly what it is to feel alive.

“I should probably go,” Dean says at last.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Castiel agrees. Dean fishes his house keys out of his pocket, but as he goes to leave Castiel grabs the pecan pie, and shoves it into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, though he refuses to elaborate what exactly he’s sorry about. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure.

Dean eyes the pie, then grins wide. “All’s forgiven.” 

After Dean leaves Castiel sits alone in the dark for a long time, lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you guys so much for the comments and kudos, they mean so much and really inspire me to keep working. I finally got a computer to replace the old one so I think we'll be closer to staying on schedule now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I was trying to get to a certain place in the fic, but then I realized this chapter would have been twice the normal length. Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and kudos. They're the best.

Dean blinks awake and flinches at the light streaming in through the blinds. Lisa lays to his left, face obscured by her curls, breath slow and even. He intends to get up and start breakfast, but he watches her for a long time before he can bring himself to move.

He has not, he tells himself as he cracks open the eggs, done anything wrong, exactly. He and Lisa have a well-maintained honesty-only policy, but he can imagine the look on her face if he went to her to confess Castiel’s massage. There was nothing sexual about it and Cas put a stop to it before it went too far. If Dean thought that there was any chance that something like that might happen again then, yes, he would talk to Lisa about it. But Cas hadn’t looked like he was interested in any kind of repeat performance.

So he can’t really explain why he has to force a smile when Lisa enters the room a few minutes later. 

“Morning,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She takes the plate he offers her and moves to the table. “So did you have a good time at Castiel’s last night? You were asleep when I got home.”

“Yeah, it was fine,” he says as he joins her. He bites into his omelette and thinks back to the start of the evening. “Met Daphne.”

Lisa makes a pleased sound around her own forkful. “What was she like?”

“She was . . . I don’t know. Nice enough.” He wants to tell her the truth, about the awkward moment at dinner, but he’s never been one for gossip, really, and Cas told him it wasn’t something that happened often. And though Cas didn’t say, specifically, not to mention it to Lisa, Dean can’t help but feel that it would be a betrayal of his confidence. “I don’t think she was feeling that great. She ended up going to bed right after dinner.”

“That’s too bad. Hey, I saw you started pulling boxes out of the attic, finally. Stumble on anything interesting yet?”

Dean swallows hard - he’d completely forgotten about the Men of Letters and, for that matter, Sam’s visit. He suddenly has the very strong desire to leap from his seat and go tear that box open. But Lisa is waiting patiently for an answer, and it’s not as though the box is likely to vanish from where it rests in the dining room. “Not yet. I’m supposed to meet Sam for lunch today, by the way. I’d invite you to come along, but it’s probably just going to be a Winchester-family history lesson, so you should probably save yourself.”

Lisa laughs. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass. I’m going _out_ tonight anyway, so I’ll just hang around the house.”

Dean could recognize the implication that lies there from miles away, so familiar is he with it. “Anyone I know,” he asks, because if he’s going to have to steer clear of any of his usual haunts - the Roadhouse, or Benny’s, or the hardware store on Fifth - for a few weeks, he’d like to know now. Stock up. 

Lisa shakes her head as she scoops the rest of food onto her fork. “No, no, an out-of-town-er. You should have seen the swimming trunks he was wearing down at the beach, God, it was like an actual cry for help. Lucky he has a cute face.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “You know, you used to have standards.”

“From the guy wearing plaid for the third day in a row.”

“Hey, I look good.” Then he has to add, with a bit more sincerity, “You’ll be careful?”

Lisa gives him a Look. “Of course. Oh, speaking of which, we’re almost out of condoms. Pick some up while you’re out with Sam?”

“You got it,” he answers. 

*

Once they’ve finished breakfast and have cleared the plates Lisa calls her mom and Dean wanders into the dining room to study the box. He studies it in silence for longer than is, undoubtedly, suitable, but he can’t help this feeling that opening the damn thing will be akin to opening Pandora’s box and he’s not sure if he’s ready to unleash that kind of trouble on the universe. 

He sighs, reminding himself that he’s being ridiculous, and pulls open the flaps. 

When he looks inside he’s more confused than before. The first thing he pulls out is a leather-bound book, no title on the outside. As he thumbs through it, he realizes that it’s not a printed book at all, but, rather, penned by someone’s hand. Long, slanted, cursive letters talk about Emily Johnson, who contacted the Men of Letters to assist her town with some trouble regarding something called ‘Woman in White.’ There are long sections on witches, and hex bags, and instructions for besting ‘Wendigos.’ The more he reads, the more unsettled he feels, and by the time he returns it to the box, he thinks he’s going to be sick. What the hell kind of memories were his grandparents trying to preserve, here?

There’s another book inside, one that talks almost exclusively about the presence of demons in the world, and ways to free an imprisoned vessel. Huge sections in Latin, more Latin than Dean has ever seen in one place, really, and when he stumbles across the word, ‘exorcism’ he slams the book closed with a snap. 

“You okay?”

The sound of Lisa’s voice makes him jump. “Yes,” he says, possibly a hair too quickly because she raises her eyebrows in skepticism. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking I could . . . use a pen and paper to keep track of what’s in the boxes?” He adds a note of request into his tone, and as she moves to retrieve the items from the kitchen, he immediately shoves the books to the bottom of the box, and uses loose paper to hide them. The last thing he needs is for Lisa to see this stuff and think she’s dating a guy whose family apparently suffered some kind of psychotic break in the past. 

She lays a hand on his shoulder as she passes him the items. “Want some help,” she offers, sliding into the seat beside him, but he shakes his head firmly and flips the flaps closed. 

“Nah, it’s alright. I need to go meet Sam anyway. Maybe later?” Which, of course, Dean knows that there’s no way in hell that he’s going to allow Lisa even once glimpse at the contents, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

She smiles at him, loose and easy. “Sure, Dean, whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” He shoves the box onto the floor and into a corner of the room. He turns to go, grabbing his keys in the process, and then pauses uncertainly. “You won’t . . . go through it without me, right?” He has a sudden vision of Lisa’s curiosity getting the best of her and coming home to find a psychiatrist waiting to fit him for a straightjacket. 

Lisa rolls her eyes, unsuspecting. “Of course not. 

*

He’s agreed to meet Sam at a small sandwich place about ten minutes away, and by the time he’s navigating into a parking spot, he’s already spotted his brother’s _Corolla_. God, Sam is so far into the suburban lifestyle that he barely recognizes the guy anymore. The family car. A doting wife at home, a car seat snapped into place because Jessica could go into labor any day now and Sam Winchester is nothing if not prepared. 

The bell over the door dings when Dean pushes it open. He spots the back of that familiar mophead and strolls over, grinning despite himself. It doesn’t matter how many times a week they do this, he’s always a little more buoyant when he and Sam can scrape some time together. Regardless of how old they get, Sam will always be his best friend. 

Which is why he feels perfectly justified in smacking him a little harder on the shoulder than necessary as he slides into the booth.

Sam glares at him but there’s mirth in his eyes. “Good to see you too,” he says. He nods at the tea in front of Dean. “Went ahead and ordered you a drink. We have Becky today, so I wasn’t sure when I’d see her again.”

Dean groans and drops his head into his folded arms. Becky Rosen is one of the waitresses at Gilbert’s Sandwich Shop and for the most part she’s not terrible at her job. She’s definitely got the friendliness down, and she has a memory that would turn an elephant green with envy, but one fault that Dean has seen raise its ugly head more than once is her ability to singularly focus on objects of her affection. Which was great when she had her heart-eyes set on Sam and, incidentally, spent more time checking on their table and refilling their drinks than on the other patrons in the restaurant, but now that she’s moved on to one of the cooks - Chuck Shurley, the poor bastard - she spends most of her time in the kitchen. 

The tea’s pretty good at least. 

They chat for a little while, Dean getting up to speed on Sam’s unending search for reasonably priced baby clothes and the diapers he keeps adding to the ever-growing pile at home. Dean attempts to remind his brother that none of this is going to be of much use until the baby is born, but Sam argues that all free time will be eaten up by feedings and nap times, and, of course, inevitably staring at the new baby for hours at a time. 

It’s only then that Becky appears to take their orders and once that’s done she instantly bounces back into the kitchen.

“So, what have you and Lisa been up to today,” Sam asks, shaking his head amusedly to himself as he watches her go.

Dean sighs, swiping a hand down his face. He hadn’t really wanted to get into this here, at a place they frequent at least once a week, and risk suspicious looks from the waiting staff, but now that Sam’s asking, he can’t bring himself to swallow the words. “I started pulling stuff down from the attic earlier. There were a couple of boxes that were pretty -” 

The words die in Dean’s throat as the door chimes the announcement of a new customer, and in walks Castiel.

There’s a good chance that Dean is projecting here a bit, but he doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Cas is looking a little worse for wear today. There are dark circles under his eyes, his movements are slow and labored, and he runs a hand through his thick hair as he approaches the counter. The owner - Dean’s seen her around but doesn’t know her name - gives Cas a warm smile that he doesn’t return, and hands him a brown bag, company logo printed on the front.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Cas says,reaching into his pocket and producing his wallet. He pulls out a few bills and hands them to her. “I’ll try to come for a visit next weekend.”

Hannah’s expression slides into concern. “Are you alright, Castiel? You don’t seem to be as well-rested as most vacationers.”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, turning away. Dean doesn’t miss the slight sweep of Hannah’s eyes over Castiel’s frame, nor the way they soften when he isn’t looking. He’s seen that same look in many women’s eyes in his lifetime, can decipher it easily and he finds that it annoys him more than it has any right to.

Dean’s so wrapped up in thinking irritated thoughts about Hannah that he doesn’t immediately notice that a pair of bright blue eyes has fastened on him.and is staring, openly. Sam’s sharp kick under the table, though, is harder to miss, and Dean shifts his gaze to Cas. 

He straightens in his seat automatically as Cas’ mouth drops open, as though to speak. No sound comes out, however, and in the silence Dean’s mind supplies the very clear memory of Cas’ skin under his hands, the shift of the muscle, the sharp bones of his hips. It’s almost unreal, the strength of the desire that hits him like a freight train. God, he wants to touch him, he feels out of his mind with it. 

He’s startled when Cas slowly begins to make his way over.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, once they’re close. He turns and smiles at Sam. “I’m sorry we haven’t met. I’m Castiel Novak. I’m Dean’s neighbor.”

Sam immediately nods and gets to his feet to shake Cas’ hand properly. “Right, sure, Dean’s told me about you. Glad to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester, Dean’s brother. Welcome to Charleston.”

“Back to Charleston,” Castiel corrects. “I lived here before.”

“Oh. Well, welcome _back_ to Charleston!”

Cas laughs. “Thank you.” 

“Wanna join us, Cas,” Dean asks, ignoring the surprised look Sam shoots him. 

“Oh, no thank you,” he answers. “I was just picking up lunch for Daphne and me.” He pauses, though, and shifts his bag from one hand to the other. “But, Dean, if I could have a word with you?”

Dean blinks, but nods, and gets to his feet to follow Castiel out the door.

Once they’re out on the street and relatively alone, he turns to Castiel, and waits. 

“First of all,” Cas begins, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I don’t know what got into my head that let me encourage - that made me . . .” He huffs frustratedly and looks away. “Nothing like that can happen again.”

“Cas, really, it’s fine. I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” In fact, that’s the exact opposite of what he was aiming for. It was just that he had believed he was the right person to identify what Cas needed, and give it to him. And even now, though he reminds himself of the boundaries Castiel is establishing, puts Cas’ words on a loop in his mind _Nothing like that can happen again_ , he’s physically fighting the urge to reach for him again. He’s always been good at reading people, likes to think it’s helped him excel at work and unless he’s much mistaken, Cas looks just as disappointed as Dean feels. “If that’s what you want,” he adds, “it’s no problem.”

Castiel nods slowly but his eyes don’t meet Dean’s. “I’m married,” he whispers lowly. “And what about you? You’re living with Lisa.”

Dean considers him and then says, before he can second-guess himself, “Well, my relationship with Lisa isn’t as monogamous as yours is with your wife.” Castiel gives him a look of confusion. 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“We’re in an open relationship, Cas. Which means-”

Cas gives him a half-hearted glare. “That’s a term I’m at least familiar with, Dean. I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Alright.”

Seconds tick by as the pair stare at each other, until Castiel sighs and looks away. “I should be getting these home,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Dean nods. “Sure.” 

Cas takes a step away, and then pauses, back going rigid the way it had the night before. Dean watches him, waiting for something that he can’t really explain. When Cas turns to meet his eyes once more, Dean feels a sharp jolt at the naked desperation he sees swimming in the blue. Then Cas is back in his space, so close that Dean is having serious problems with his own self-restraint. “I wish- I wish I’d known you. Before.”

Goosebumps shoot up Dean’s arms at Castiel’s words. It’s one thing to have him warm and pliant under his hands, and another to hear that Cas isn’t having any easier time than Dean. But Dom or not, Cas has also made his stance here very clear, and so he has to be the one to decide to break the rules.

Dean smiles, and watches Cas relax. “I wish that too,” he says. “But we’re still friends, right?”

He nudges him hard with his shoulder, just to make Cas laugh.

“Yes, Dean, of course. Friends.”


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel drops the bags into the passenger side of his car and folds his arms over the steering wheel. His head falls back against the headrest as his eyes slip closed and he takes a long, deep breath. He knew he as acting off this morning as he tried to fumble his way through breakfast and the afternoon at the shoreline with his wife, but now his hands are shaking and he knows his trademark poker face has fallen away completely. He gives himself a firm mental shake and curses loudly.

What is getting into him, he wonders, as he finally puts the car in gear and backs out of the space. Dean is just a man. A friend, perhaps, but someone so human should not be able to ignite feelings like these in Castiel. He’s flustered, thrown in a way he can’t recall ever having been before. He’s _married_ , for God’s sake, and he’s never had to question his or Daphne’s ability to remain faithful before, and after a couple of evenings with his neighbor he’s prepared to, what? Toss it all out the window, like it means nothing? 

He’d had some fears, right after the fire. Daphne had been so isolated, unwilling to let him offer any kind of comfort, jumping at the smallest noises. Always frightened. And he’d had his own problems coping, to throw into the mix. He scoffed at her recommendation that he seek counseling of his own, pretended, for longer than he’s proud of, that everything was perfectly alright. The weekend he found the paperwork for filing for divorce in her desk drawer had been a wakeup call, scaring him into reality. He never did see a counselor – too ashamed, in the end – but he managed to tap into some never seen before strength and had some long talks with Daphne that had been the saving grace, in the end.

But cheating? That was so far outside his realm of possibilities that he could barely wrap his mind around the idea. Not that it matters (because it _can’t_ matter), but he’d assumed that Lisa’s presence complicated things on Dean’s side as well. That Castiel wasn’t the only one who had someone else involved in all this. But after that conversation with Dean, it’s pretty clear that Dean is merely taking his cues from Castiel and what he wants. Or, has to want. 

Is the man he’s turning into? Someone who looks at a woman as wonderful as Daphne, and thinks about how he’s shackled to a life that should have ended months ago? Who spends his spare moments wishing for a freedom that’s far outside his reach? 

The surge of self-hatred is sudden, but not unexpected.

He plasters a smile onto his face as he pulls into his driveway and parks the car. Daphne was taking a shower to wash off the sand when he left to pick up lunch, and he finds her lounging on the couch, reading, when he enters the house. She looks up, eyes soft and curious when he freezes in the entry way. So trusting, he thinks as he gets his feet moving again. He drops a kiss onto her forehead as he passes and lays puts the bags on the table. 

“Smells amazing,” Daphne comments, getting to her feet to join him. She reaches into one of the bags and pulls out the French Dip sandwich he chose for her and the chips as he gets his own sandwich and the plates Hannah put in there for him. He hands one to Daphne, and they both take seats. “Was it busy at Gilbert’s?” 

“Not too bad,” he answers as they dig in. 

“Was Hannah there?”

He nods, uncertain about the direction of the conversation. “She was doing the counter today. Inias must have been running the back.” Daphne makes a soft, noncommittal sound in the back of her throat and he tilts his head at her inquisitively. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says. Then she gives him a sly grin. “It’s just, she’s always had a thing for you. You know that.”

“Daphne, be serious.”

“I _am_ being serious.” But she laughs, then, somewhat undercutting her argument. “That’s why she always saves you those hazelnut croissant things.” When the best he can offer is baffled silence, she continues, “I can’t say I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. As I recall, _I_ ended up asking _you_ out.” 

Castiel smiles at the memory. “You were swayed by my charms. I should get full credit for that.”

“Not this lifetime. What are you up to today?”

He breathes a silent sigh of relief that she lets the subject of Hannah go, and tells her that he has no particular plans for today, though, in what is becoming an increasingly concerning pattern, it’s not exactly the truth. He knows that she has an appointment today with her therapist, and afterwards she’s supposed to go shopping for her friend’s bachelorette party with an old co-worker. Which means he’ll have the house to himself again.

He tries to tell himself that it is technically the truth. That he really has nothing more strenuous planned than a few hours on the internet. The fact that he can’t do this type of research until his wife is out for the day is probably an excellent indication as to the quality of the idea, but it’s not enough to keep him from opening up his laptop the moment he hears Daphne’s car back out of the driveway an hour later.

For a long time he taps uncertainly against the table as he stares at the empty search bar. It’s tough, gathering information like this, he’s coming to realize. He has a curiosity – a fascination, to be honest – that he’s desperate to satisfy, and it’s not enough to just read descriptions on Wikipedia. He needs something more than that, something real. Something other than definitions that could be pulled from Webster’s. He needs direction.

He glances at his cellphone, lying unassumingly on the table. 

He’s not going to text Dean. He can’t. He’s fully aware that he just saw the man and told him that their connection couldn’t go any further than friendship. He cannot ask this of his friend.

But this is what friends are for, he rationalizes to himself as he closes his hand around the phone. To teach each other, to learn about things you wouldn’t have understood before. It’s not really that much different than when Chuck taught him about baseball. 

He ignores the fluttery feeling in his stomach and types up a text:

_Hello, Dean. Are you still willing to steer my research in the right direction?_

An answer comes almost immediately and he can feel a flush spread across his face as he reads, _More than willing, but kind of busy at the moment. Did you just have a question or I could send you some links if you want?_

He will never understand how Dean does that – soothes away his mortification without even trying. He wonders if it is a trait all . . . Dominants possess or if that’s just _Dean_. Regardless, his misgivings die away and he forgets that he’s been labeled ‘awkward’ since he was young. He asks that Dean send him some sites to peruse.

When his phone chimes again, alerting him to the new message, he carefully reads the site URLs. His eyes skip to the bottom of the message where he sees Dean added _More later_. He can’t deny the relief that washes over him as he types in the address to the first site and hits Enter. 

The relief gives way to fresh panic.

Dean must have him confused with someone else because Castiel doesn’t understand half of the terms that are printed across his screen. He’s never heard the word “munch” used in relation to anything other than food, but if he ever needs to know where to find one, the site advises him to use the locator at the top. However, Dean sent him here, and it couldn’t have been without good reason. 

He scrolls over the titles, then pauses when he sees one with promise: ‘Safewords, for Beginners.’ 

Beginners. Like Castiel. 

He learns a lot about safewords. When to use them, when not to, suggestions. There’s a section that describes a Red/Yellow/Green method that makes sense to him. He finds himself thinking that if he were ever to engage in such a thing, he could see how his mind would associate red with Stop, green with Go, and yellow with Hold On. 

He returns to the main page and now that he’s thinking a little clearer, he notices the little search engine on the far right-hand side. He remembers his first foray into all this and types in ‘Bondage.’ Just to see what will come up, he tells himself. 

It turns out that there is much more to bondage than tying the other person up. There are different types of knots, different positions a person can be bound. He reads the information thoroughly and as he returns to the main page his phone pings again.

 _Would you still be friends with me if I was a descended from the Ghostbusters?_

Castiel blinks in bewilderment, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth as well. Though Dean is obviously being facetious, there’s a certain irony in his timing, and Castiel replies, _Frankly, it would work in your favor._

He waits for a moment and when there’s no further comment from Dean, he returns to his browsing. 

*

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he leans back in his seat and stretches a crick out of his back, but the sun is setting in the distance. His throat is parched, so he walks into the kitchen to pour himself some water, and just as he’s filling the glass with ice, he hears a sound. Not just any sound – a familiar sound. The soft creek of a door inching open. 

He spins around, and his eyes dart around the room, searching for a source that he knows he won’t see. All the doors are firmly closed but he isn’t surprised because there’s nothing about this that is natural. He can just feel it, in the hair on the back of his neck that is standing on end and how the temperature in the room suddenly plummets. 

For several moments he doesn’t move – couldn’t, if he tried – and then a soft, musical laugh trills from behind him, terrifying him so badly that his hands go numb and the glass falls to the floor and shatters. He doesn’t bother second-guessing himself before he flings the front door open and dashes out, slamming the door behind him.

He doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he’s pounding on the front door of Dean’s house. “Dean,” he yells from the outside. “Dean, open up, _please_! Dean!”

Finally, _finally_ the door opens, and then Dean is staring down at him, his beautiful green eyes wide with concern. “Cas,” he’s dimly aware of Dean saying. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. How is he supposed to explain what he’s going through? He’ll sound crazy, he’s fully aware of that. But then, how is he supposed to get through this if he hides it? 

He has no idea what it is that Dean sees in his expression that makes him take Castiel by the elbows and drag him inside. 

They don’t make it two steps before Castiel’s legs give out and it is only Dean’s strong grip that keeps him from collapsing to the ground. He drops his head onto Dean’s chest, closing his eyes and focusing on Dean’s gentle voice murmuring, “It’s okay, Cas. You’re alright. Just a few more steps and we’ll be at the couch.” 

Somehow they manage it without injury, and Castiel takes a careful seat. Dean says, “Hey, Sammy, get a glass of water.”

“Yeah, I gotcha.”

Castiel breathes in a shuddering breath, and forces himself to open his eyes again. The first thing he sees is Dean crouched in front of him, face drawn and serious. There’s a hand that does not belong to Castiel resting on his thigh, but touch feels so _good_ right now that he decides to feel guilty later, and grasps Dean’s other hand between both of his own. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know your brother was here. I can go if you like.”

Dean lightly threads their fingers together and squeezes. “Shut up, Cas. You’re not going anywhere.” 

He doesn’t have the energy to fight, so he nods and gives Dean a weak smile in return. 

Sam appears instantly, so Dean pulls away to pass Castiel the glass, which even though his panic, is more of a disappointment than he’d like to admit. 

“Slow sips,” Dean instructs. Castiel nods and obediently ignores the urge to gulp the entire thing down. Eventually his heart, which he hadn’t realized was pounding, returns to a normal rhythm, though he has no idea how long it actually takes. He’s vaguely aware of Dean and Sam bidding each other goodnight, and hears the strange amount of weight in Dean’s quiet, “We’ll be continuing this conversation tomorrow.”

Dean walks his brother to the door before returning to sit beside Castiel on the couch. He takes Castiel’s hand closest to him and this time traps it between his own. They’re so close, but more than that, there’s something intimate bubbling between them that lets Castiel trust Dean quicker than should make sense. So when Dean says, “Talk to me,” it’s only half-heartedly than he answers, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I think of myself as being a pretty open-minded guy, you know,” Dean teases softly. 

“I know.”

“So?”

It’s desperation that pulls it out of him. He needs someone who will listen, someone he can lean on for a little while, before he has to go back and pretend for Daphne’s sake. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

He looks away because he can’t bear to see the pity that will no doubt be reflected in Dean’s expression, but then Dean’s catching his chin with a feather-light touch and forcing their gazes to connect. “Don’t hide here,” Dean reminds him, voice low and husky. 

“You do?” Because that’s all he can see sketched across Dean’s face. No doubt, no amusement, just utter trust. Comradery. 

Dean sighs and Castiel feels it brush his mouth. He tries not to shudder too visibly. “If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have told you ‘no way.’ But I wasn’t kidding around when I asked you about the Ghostbusters. That’s what Sam and I were talking about. Our mom and her parents . . .” Dean shakes his head wearily. “They used to do that. Apparently before Mom married Dad she was some kind of famous monster hunter.” 

Of all the responses Castiel thinks he could have imagined, this would not have made the list. But along with the initial shock, there’s a feeling of _relief_ that flows through him like a raging river. Dean believes him! He actually believes him. 

He wants to kiss Dean.

It hits him like a ton of bricks, the way the ties that were born when he met Dean have suddenly tightened, reached a breaking point that leaves him leaning in just a little closer, eyes trained on Dean’s mouth, committing it to memory. He doesn’t know how he summons the ability to reply, “I suppose everything happens for a reason.”

Dean blinks slow and curious. “They teach you that in Sunday school?”

“Among other things.”

“I was never much of a believer myself. I don’t know what to think now.” Dean grins – Castiel’s gut clenches. “My mom was a famous ghost-hunter, and my neighbor has a ghost. I guess that’s par for the course. Why don’t you tell me about your ghost? Did you see it?”

“No. But I heard it.” The memory of the chilling laugh that had set every nerve on edge will probably be embedded in him for the rest of his life. “There’ve been other things,” he adds. “The house gets cold – almost frostily so.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “I cannot fucking believe this. That’s one of the – there were these books in one of the boxes I pulled down from the attic today, and one of them talked about that. About ‘cold spots.’”

Castiel nods back urgently. “Yes, exactly. And then there’s Ellen. Whose been asking me all these questions about the fire.”

“Do you think that’s where this started,” Dean asks.

“It seems likely,” replies Castiel. “There were similar incidents to that night. Tonight there was laughter. A woman’s voice, and I heard her before the fire, too.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I am not ‘kidding you,’” Castiel snaps. He goes to finally withdraw his hand but Dean tightens his grip, holding it fast.

“I still believe you,” he says. “I’m just . . . It’s a lot to take in, you know? I’m worried about you,” he adds. “I don’t know enough about any of this to help you yet, and I don’t like it.”

“You’re helping.” Castiel flushes, because it comes out a little more earnestly than he intends. But it doesn’t mean that it’s not true. He had been on the verge of a full-blown panic attack when he was on his way over here, and now he’s almost calm. It would be easy to attribute it to the relief of being honest, but it’s more than that, he knows. It’s only been a couple of days and he’s already starting to crave these times when he can be alone with Dean, when they can inch just a little closer to that line in the sand. 

Dean’s gaze drops to where their fingers are woven together and his thumb skirts across Castiel’s knuckles. Castiel’s breath catches and he blurts out, “Thank you for your earlier help, as well. The sites were very informative.”

“My pleasure,” Dean says. His eyes darken and Castiel doesn’t know how they’ve gotten here, how they keep coming back to _this_. But they’re careening into dangerous territory. “Tell me something you learned.”

He should stop this. “Safewords.” But he doesn’t think he can.

“Is that right,” Dean says, which is clearly not a question. He scoots just a little closer, until their sides are a long, hot line. “Did you choose one? For your hypothetical scene?”

“I liked the traffic light system.” 

“I’m familiar with it.” Dean sweeps a long look up Castiel’s frame, and he could swear he feels it burning into his skin. Then Dean licks his lips and asks, heavy and low and so _Dominant_ that it ricochets through Castiel like a firecracker, “What’s your color now?”

And Castiel answers, all doubts dissolved away, “Green.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to finally get here, you guys have no idea. Hope you're enjoying it so far! Let me know.


	10. Chapter 10

Truth be told, Dean isn’t at all surprised that they would wind up here; Cas has been too curious and Dean _far_ too willing to indulge him. Pursuing Cas like he has is not something he would have thought himself capable of before, but Cas has eyes on him that speak to a trust that Dean remembers well, and he likes to think he’s earned it honestly. And there’s something else there too, this strength that resonates from the man beside him reminds Dean that trust has to come from himself, too. He has to trust that Cas is learning his limits and that he knows better than to let Dean push him any further than he’s ready to go.

A shiver darts up Dean’s spine that reminds him that they’re actually doing this.

He takes a deep breath and as he exhales, his mind goes through his internal rolodex of options for this evening. It’s pretty varied, even for a Dom with as much practical knowledge as Dean, but coupling it with what he knows about Cas is a bit tougher. He knows Cas won’t let him go too far, but it’s probably for the best that they start slow. Let Cas get used to Dean taking care of him this way. 

He swallows hard, and shifts back, releasing his hold, so that he can study Cas more clearly. His arms are loose, his blink slow, face open. His gaze is firmly trained on Dean, and like a rubber band snapping back into place, he has to bite back the inclination to tell Cas to keep his eyes down. He wants those unwavering blues set on him. 

He glances down at Cas’ pants and then says, firmly, “Take your dick out.”

Cas hesitates, but then there’s the snap of a button, the hiss of a zipper, and Dean’s helpless to resist the low sound that rises up in his throat when Cas’ hand guides his reddening cock into sight. Dean grins wolfishly, taking in the flush on Cas’ skin that runs from his neck to the tips of his ears and then instructs, “Lick your palm. Touch yourself.”

It’s only because Dean is paying such careful attention that he detects the slight tremble of Cas’ hands. He glances up, catching Cas’ eyes again, and holds them. Several beats pass and then he says gently, “You can trust me, and you know what to do if you start to feel overwhelmed.”

“I know,” says Cas, though he seems more heartened by Deans’ reassurance. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly, sketching something resembling a small smile. “Sir.”

If Cas was attempting to break the tension between them, it fails miserably. Dean’s heart flips over in his chest as his blood begins to race beneath his skin and he feels a little crazy with it, with the control he’s been offered. He licks his lips at the same time that Cas’ hand wraps snugly around his cock.

His gaze flickers over Dean’s face uncertainly, and Dean gives him a short nod of approval. He’s half-hard already, Dean notes with a thrill, and one sinful stroke fills Dean with a need to touch that he can only just reign in. It’s made a little easier by the reminder that he doesn’t want to give Cas any reason to regret what happens tonight, and crossing that line might be enough to do it. _Next time,_ he tells himself, though he has no idea whether there will be another night like this or not. 

For now, it’s enough to watch Cas gasp at his own touch, writhe deeper into the cushions supporting his back. His lashes flutter, his eyes slipping closed, and Dean says, “Look at me, Cas.”

Cas takes a shuddering breath before forcing himself to follow Dean’s instructions. There’s no wondering as to the reason – there’s embarrassment reflecting at Dean as much as there is anything else – and he aches to take it away. His heart leaps a little in his chest as he lets himself brush a fingertip along Cas’ jawline. “You’re safe here,” he reminds him. 

_“Dean.”_ Cas tries to blink away tears before Dean can see, but in a way Dean expected them and God, his fucking mouth is watering with the desire to take them between his lips and learn what Cas’ trust _tastes_ like. 

He doesn’t though. Just encourages, darkly, “Cas, I wish you could see yourself like this. You’re stunning, do you know that?”

Cas doesn’t answer, but Dean can chide him about paying attention next time. Maybe. Hopefully. 

He lets his gaze drift to Castiel’s cock and bites his lip against the moan that rises up when he takes in the rapidly purpling head. Drops of precome ease the way from root to tip, and Cas’ hand is getting freaking _filthy_ with it. Dean grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep from reaching out again, reaching lower. “Faster.”

There’s a muffled groan and Cas whispers, “Dean, I-” Perspiration dots his wrinkled forehead as he shifts his grip and marginally increases his speed. 

It’s not enough, though, so Dean snaps, “Cas.” And Cas’ frustrated huff probably shouldn’t be the turn on that it is, but it doesn’t stop him from swallowing a wide smile. God, this is more than he could have ever dreamed of getting, and even on his own Cas is responsive in the way so few people are. 

As Cas’ strokes increase in speed, he becomes desperate with it, chasing his orgasm mindlessly, getting closer to the edge with each broken gasp. Dean can spot the signs from a mile away, and so he tells himself that he can’t be blamed for letting his mouth dance tantalizingly against Cas’ ear. “Don’t come yet.”

Cas jerks back, gives him a blearily confused look as the realization sinks in. His hips stutter wantonly and he gasps, “Dean!”

It’s almost enough to break him completely, but he ignores the way his own cock hardens, pressing irritably against his pants. He presses a kiss to Cas’ temple because he really just can’t resist. “Don’t want this to end too soon, do you?”

“I – Dean-“ Cas gasps, expression wild. “I c-can’t. I’m too-”

So Dean throws caution to the wind and grabs Cas’ hands with one of his own, jerking them away from Cas completely and pinning them over his head. Cas cries out, instinct kicking in and he squirms to escape Dean’s hold, but Dean’s a pretty strong guy and it’s not even contest; he doesn’t waver, despite the sudden onslaught of Cas’ frustration. “You’re okay,” he says softly. “Take a breath.”

Cas’ head falls back against the pillows, sucking in gulps of air until his haggard breathing evens out. He sighs, licking his lips as he fights for some semblance of self-control, which is made all the more difficult, Dean is fully aware, by his presence and the look he has trained on Cas. Dean isn’t sure what Cas is seeing in his expression, aside from the lust zinging through his extremities, but after a long pause, he gives a short nod. “I’m alright now,” he says. He somehow manages to flush _again_ and clearly he is trying to drive Dean crazy.

It’s only natural that Dean kinda wants to make Cas a little crazy too. He tucks himself even closer to the man beside him, and as Cas wraps his hand around his cock to resume, Dean wraps his hand around Cas’.

Cas gasps, eyes going wide like saucers as his gaze fastens there. _“Dean,”_ he breathes. It might be the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard. 

Still, he has to check because they skipped over the conversation they should have had before they started down this path. “Color?”

“Green. Very green.”

He guides Cas into movement, not bothering to smother a groan at the feel of the heat stiffening under their joined ministrations and the downright _depraved_ sound of skin and slick. Before long Cas is pulled as tight as a bowstring again, on that beautiful precipice that Dean’s so fond of. He rubs his thumb across the slit, mixing with Cas’ precome and it could be the surprise at the action or the pleasure itself, but something sends Cas’ body jackknifing and he digs his nails into his thigh. Cas’ jaw is locked up so tightly it’s probably painful, and Dean smirks triumphantly. 

“Cas,” Dean says teasingly. “Do you wanna come?”

Cas nods back with such urgency that Dean half-expects him to shake his brain free. 

“Well.” He could draw this out even longer, edging Cas until he’s screaming, make those tears run freely, but Cas is being so good, obediently waiting for Dean’s permission without even being told that he deserves to be rewarded. “I just want one thing from you, alright?”

_“Yes.”_

His free hand hooks around Cas’ neck and drags his face up until their mouths are an inch apart. “Beg me for it.”

Cas stares at him in disbelief, which makes Dean wonder if he’s ever had to beg for anything like this before. More than likely not, considering the way his eyes immediately dart away. 

Dean glares at him and, in punishment, sets a new, furious pace around the swelling cock and Cas all but yells. “Come on, Cas. I’ll give you what you need; I just want this one thing in return. It’s so easy, sweetheart.” He noses at Cas’ throat then kisses him there. “Just give in. I promise, it’ll feel so good.”

Cas gives a dry sob then cries out, “ _Please, Dean!_ Please, please.”

“Hmm. Please what?”

And that beautiful, gravelly voice that Dean’s spent a lot of time fantasizing about, succumbs, moaning, “Please let me come! Please, Dean!”

Dean smiles. _“Very_ good. Come.”

With a loud shout, Cas shatters. Come spills out over their intertwined hands, pulsing like a heartbeat, painting his blue polo with wet stripes as they stroke him through the aftershocks. He tries to lay his head back against the cushions but Dean catches his chin with his come-drenched hand (and Cas with come on his face, fucking glorious) and holds his eyes. He kisses Cas cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth, his neck, until Cas is literally trembling under the attention. “You were amazing,” he tells him. “You made that so good, Cas. One of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.” He catches a lock of Cas’ hair – sticky with sweat – and brushes it from his forehead, before kissing him there, too. “Wait right here, alright? I’ll be right back.”

He navigates his way to the bathroom to retrieve a washcloth and runs it under warm water from the spigot. He wrings it out in the sink, and battles back the doubts that begin creeping their way into his mind. _Cas wanted this,_ he resolutely thinks to himself. Not that Dean really understands why. The guy has a beautiful, kind wife that he could be spending this time with, and yet he’s here, with Dean. 

Dean shakes the thoughts from his head, and rejoins Cas on the couch. 

They stare at each other for several moments, until Dean distracts them both as he uses the cloth to gingerly clean Cas up as best as he can. When he finishes, Cas, bright scarlet, tucks himself back into his pants, and Dean drops the washcloth onto the floor and settles back to wait for a reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly sorry to post such a short chapter, but I really felt like Cas' reaction should be told from his point of view so people could see his headspace. Also, this is obviously super vanilla, but it will not remain that way forever. Or for long, tbh. Please drop me a comment and let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Dean sits back, waiting, and Castiel does a mental assessment. 

He asks himself how he feels and is stunned by the answer. Alright. He feels alright. He keeps waiting for a surge of panic or terror or shame or any other emotion to come crashing over him, but other than the pleasant hum under his skin and the fog that’s stifling his clear thinking, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. In fact, the fear that he was holding when he showed up here has all but evaporated. Right now, in this moment, he’s as untouchable as a ghost. 

He smiles. It’s a small thing, but it’s there and it’s real. “Thank you,” he says, though it’s more of a rumble than anything else. 

Dean grins back so widely that Castiel thinks he could be blinded by the sight, and taps the meat of Castiel’s thigh with his knuckles. “So you’re . . . okay?” His face grows serious within the span of a heartbeat. “We didn’t talk about this beforehand, and we should’ve. That one is entirely on me, man. I’m a little out of practice.” 

It’s a bit difficult to focus on what Dean’s saying, sated and content as he is at the moment, but he detects more than one note of guilt in his voice, and he can’t stand for that. Not right now. Castiel will have guilt of his own to face when he’s able, and if nothing else, “Dean, it’s alright. You made me feel good for the first time in a long time. A very long time.”

Dean breathes in deeply through his nose and the consternation has faded when he says, “Okay, Cas. Okay.” Castiel starts when Dean brushes another kiss against his temple, but he can’t deny that it comforts him, though of what he cannot put his finger on. The intimacy there, the connection he can sense building between them makes him repress a shiver. Dean uses a thumb to part Castiel’s lips, and for a heart-stopping moment he’s expecting Dean to kiss him there, the way Castiel has been wanting, but instead he fastens their gazes together. “But in the future, if you decide to do this again, with _whoever_ , you can’t do a scene like that, even low-key, without discussing it first. It’s for your safety, for your Dom’s safety. You always need to know what your limits are, Cas. Do you understand?”

Castiel swallows, a flutter of nerves sweeping over him, and he suddenly feels like he’s sinking, like if he concentrates hard enough that the couch will devour him. He finds himself wishing it would. “I messed up already,” he grumbles. He tries for a teasing tone but misses by a mile, he knows. He’s been trying to ignore these thoughts, but they come rising to the surface in the face of his self-doubt. “Par for the course, I suppose.” He moves to sit up, leave Dean’s house with whatever dignity that he retains (admittedly, probably not much), but then Dean’s laying a hand flat against his chest and pushing him back. 

“Cas, look at me.” When he does, Dean leans ever so slightly forward, splaying out his hands. His eyes are warm and just a little mischievous. “Do I look like someone who is _unhappy_ with the way tonight worked out?” Cas presses his lips together, gaze straying curiously up Dean’s body and has to admit that he doesn’t. But it doesn’t make sense, his mind tries to argue as it replays the last few minutes. It’s on this repeat that he realizes something that makes him want to squirm with embarrassment.

“You didn’t come,” be blurts, ignoring his now blazingly hot face. He forces himself not to look away from Dean, a small part of him finding its grounding in returning to his blatant honesty. But Dean just looks surprised at the announcement and Castiel adds, impatiently, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I’m surprised _you_ noticed,” Dean counters. He laughs that vibrant, alive laugh that Castiel is becoming familiar with and his hand falls to his groin, where it pulls once. Castiel tracks the movement before he jerks his eyes up to see Dean watching him, considering. A long moment drags between them until Dean finally shakes his head and smirks. “I’m okay, thanks. I’ll take care of it later.”

Castiel has to fight back a mental image, though he has the impression that Dean didn’t choose those words at random.

“You ever been with a guy before, Cas,” Dean asks him suddenly. 

“No.” It doesn’t feel like enough of an answer so he swallows before continuing. “Before Daphne, there wasn’t really anyone. I was homeschooled until high school, and even then I was always more studious than anything else. I didn’t go to prom. Hell, I didn’t know the date until it was over with. I didn’t participate in any club or things like that.” He smiles as he thinks back. “But I will tell you that I was approached more than once about joining the debate team. I told them no but I think I would have been good at it.”

Dean smiles back, so wide that Castiel’s heart flutters in return. “That, I can believe. You seem like the kind of guy who can’t be talked into things easily.”

“Most of the time,” he says with a hint of self-deprecation. He regrets it, though, when Dean’s face tightens and he flinches. 

“Shit, Cas, if you regret what we just did, I’m sorry. I really am. I thought you wanted-”

“I did,” he rushes to assure Dean. This situation is complicated enough without adding self-doubt onto Dean’s plate. He doesn’t blame Dean at all; it wouldn’t be right for Dean to blame himself. Cas walked into this with his eyes wide open. He could have said ‘Red’ when Dean asked. He stopped him in the kitchen the night before. Instead, he let Dean touch him the way his skin has been aching for, so badly that he _begged_ for it. There’s no other way to see it. “I’m not sorry it happened. I didn’t mean it that way. I just . . . didn’t expect it. I thought – I’ve always resisted. But you can’t take that onto yourself. I wanted you. I . . .” His eyes slip shut and he lets himself (just one last time, he swears) brush his lips against Dean’s jawbone and lightly run his fingertips through Dean’s hair. Their foreheads touch and his breath stutters when Dean emits a soft sound of contentment. “I still want you,” he whispers. He sighs, forces himself to remind of the reason he returned to Charleston, the woman that trusts him, that he promised to protect. He pulls away. “But I can’t do this again. I have to at least try to fix this marriage. What we just did, what you just did for me, I won’t pretend that I’ve ever felt the like. But I have to do what’s right.” 

Dean nods, face carefully blank, and gets to his feet. Castiel hates that he’s the one responsible for contorting such a beautiful smile into something so empty, but he has to remind himself that it’s for the best. Dean _should_ be angry with him. He told him yes and then pushed him away. Nevertheless, he gropes for words as he makes his way to the door until he has to admit that there’s nothing he can say that can fix this. 

“You going to be okay,” Dean asks, as he opens the door for him. “Hate to hear that ghost stabbed you though during the night.”

“I’ll be alright,” he says. Best to get this over with now, while he still has his nerve. “Daphne should be home soon, anyway.”

“Right. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

As he makes his way back to his home, he catches sight of his wife’s car in the driveway, and that’s when it hits it. The full reality of his betrayal comes crashing down around him, and all of the good feelings he had, that feeling of being safe under Dean’s hands, vanishes between one blink and the next. He actually committed adultery. He took years of commitment, years of care and kindness and trust and smashed it apart as though it meant nothing at all. He’s going to have to look into his wife’s face and pretend that he’s still the man he was two weeks ago. That the appearance of one man into his life doesn’t mean that he’s becoming someone he can barely recognize.

He should tell her. There’s no question about it. As precarious as their situation is, the last thing that they can afford is secrets between them. Hiding this is the coward’s way out. It doesn’t stop him from trying to arrange his expression into something guileless as he steps into the house. 

He sees Daphne immediately. She’s sitting at the dining room table, Castiel’s laptop opened in front of her. He’s entering from her right side, so he can’t tell what she’s looking at, but what he can see of her face makes his insides freeze over. As he draws closer, he’s stunned to see tears dried on her cheeks and he flicks quick look at the screen.

_No._

“I was going to check my e-mail. My laptop’s dead, and yours was right here.”

The page on ‘Flogging’ looms large in his vision as he drops into a chair. He doesn’t need to be looking at it; he remembers it well. The paragraphs of description, the photos of the tool. Colors, sizes, types . . . He opens his mouth to defend himself, but he can’t make a sound.

“So I went through your history,” Daphne, continues, voice cold. “Saw you’ve been making decisions about our sex life without me. So glad you were listening when we had our talk about my boundaries.” 

“I . . . I was listening,” Castiel chokes out. He can’t believe this is happening. All his internal battling over telling Daphne about Dean, and now she’s come face-to-face with another secret right after he was thinking that they couldn’t endure any more. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Not what this is about,” Daphne repeats disbelievingly. She scoffs and takes another sip from the wineglass sitting at her left. He wants to protest, but he’s already on such unstable terrain that he can’t bring himself to. “I tell you I’m not ready to start having sex, and your response is to Google the most depraved and abnormal version of it?” She jumps to her feet, swaying just a bit, and when he stands as well and extends a hand to help her, she jerks away as though scalded. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses. Her voice begins to raise dangerously. “You’re disgusting. If you ever thought I would let you hurt me like that-”

“It’s not for you,” he interjects, his only defense. “It’s for me. It’s – I wanted to learn about submission. For myself.”

He’s not sure how he expects her to respond. When she crosses to the living room to pull a packed suitcase from behind the couch, though, he’s pretty sure he actually feels himself stop breathing. “Daphne.”

“Castiel, I can’t look at you right now. It doesn’t matter, really, who you’re expecting to play what roles, because this isn’t the kind of relationship that I signed up for.” She gives him a sad but determined look as she adjusts her suitcase in her hand so she can use the other to finish off her glass of wine. “I’m going to stay at the Best Western,” she says.

“Please don’t,” he says. He takes a feeble step forward but freezes when she holds up a hand telling him to stop. “Just, let me take you, at least,” he tries. “You can’t be driving like this.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way her eyes seem to soften, somewhat, at the concern. She nods at her cellphone. “The cab pulled up right before you got back.”

“You were going to leave while I was gone?”

“I hoped it wouldn’t work out that way, but I was prepared to, yes.”

He sighs and looks away, guilt and shame warring in his gut. He wants to scream, shout, cry, maybe, but all he can say is, “Will you be back?”

“I just need a few days,” she whispers. “I need some air. I need to think about what I saw.”

“We could talk this out,” he tries to tell her, but she shakes her head firmly.

“There’s nothing to say.” She opens the door, and steps through, pausing to lay a hand on his elbow and squeeze. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

*

He stands at the door long after the cab drives off. He’s not expecting her to suddenly change her mind, that’s not Daphne’s way, but it’s hard to convince himself to accept that there’s no one to wait for. In the span of one night, his marriage might actually be over. It seems hilarious that fifteen minutes ago he was worried about her discovering what happened with Dean. She’s gone, now, and it has nothing to do with Dean.

He finally returns to the kitchen, and stares at the wine bottle Daphne was drinking from. He threw out all the wine last night, he remembers, which means she has to have picked this one up on her way home. Before she saw Castiel’s internet research. So she’d been planning to drink all day. Usually there’s a trigger, something to switch on that impulse to go from one glass to five, but since he wasn’t with her today, he can’t begin to guess. He wishes that he could call her therapist, but he knows from previous experience that they won’t tell him anything, citing patient privacy as the reason. 

He picks up the bottle and pretends not to notice that it’s less than halfway full, and takes a large swig from it before taking it with him into the dining room. He settles into Daphne’s seat and stares blankly at the Flogging page on his laptop. Depraved, she called it. Abnormal. Disgusting. _Maybe she’s right_ , he thinks. Though it hadn’t felt that way, in those moments where Dean was looming over him, drinking him in. Even without penetration, it was the best sex he’s ever had. With one word, Castiel could have stopped it all, and God forgive him, but that’s the most empowering thing he’s ever felt. 

But Daphne.

Depraved.

Abnormal.

_You’re disgusting._

_You’re disgusting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, I'm not going to vilify Daphne just to justify Cas and Dean being together. Her reaction, just like everything else, will have a reason and will come up later.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean doesn’t see Cas for three days and he very studiously does not worry.

He fills his time easily enough. He unloads more boxes from the attic, and that takes up almost an entire day and a half. He finally relents and opens the box holding his grandmother’s journals, and where he expected (and hoped, if he is being honest) to see a secret family recipe for apple pie, he finds books upon books about monsters she, her husband, and Mary encountered as hunters. Deanna Campbell was a smart, strong woman, he can tell that immediately. He becomes engrossed in the stories about werewolves and how his mother was the first to take one down; the pride invested in each stroke of ink sparks warmth in Dean’s gut. 

He pours over the passages on ghosts, committing each detail to memory. Salt. Iron. Bones. Deanna writes that she heard a story from some other hunters a few states up about a spirit that had held on, not with her bones, but, rather, through a costume pendant given to her by her oldest son. By the time he gets halfway through the third journal, he has to take a break, if he’s going to remain on this side of panic. People have _died_ at ghosts’ hands. Some father in Wichita got skewered by his own fishing pole. And Cas knows nothing about his own invisible houseguest. _Nothing_. 

He finds the book with the latest entry date, morbid curiosity eventually getting the best of him. He knows what Mary told him and Sam - that Deanna and Samuel died in a car accident before she married John - but Deanna’s hurried words tell a more sinister story.

_Alan came by today. He told us that the location of the M.O.L headquarters has been compromised, and that any day could bring an army of demons to their door. They have asked us to keep guard over some of the texts and artifacts. There have been rumors, I think, that Mary and John will wed, in time, so I think Alan sees it as a way to keep it in the family. I wish I could say I was surprised when he told us about John’s ancestry, but by now I’ve come to accept these ‘coincidences’ that come with the job. A part of me thought I should tell Alan that he should be truthful with John, and give him what is rightfully his, but John’s gotten so far in his life without being dragged into all of this. I have no doubt that Mary will find a way to break free of hunting and there’s a chance for the two of them to start over. What good would it do, now? And there’s danger in guarding them - how could John possibly protect himself?_

_Samuel is confident in our ability to protect what was left with us. I’m concerned that the vanishing spells won’t be enough to hide their presence, though what other choice do we have? We dedicated our lives to protecting the innocent, and that’s what we must do. For John’s sake, and for our own._

It’s the most his father is mentioned in any one place, typically relegated to notes on close calls, when he would stop by unannounced and Deanna had to rush to hide evidence of the Campbell’s family business. Deanna’s determination to keep him safe fills Dean with a strange mixture of gratitude and regret. If Deanna and Samuel paid the price for John’s innocence - and Dean is certain they did - it afforded John a few more years, but certainly not the long life they were hoping for. But they’re the reason he’s here right now, that Sam’s here. That he has memories with his father.

The second day, while sorting through some antique tools, he tells Lisa what happened with Cas. She reacts just fine, isn’t upset at all, in fact, but, then, he can’t bring himself to tell her that it was Cas he was with. In fact he’s vague on most of the details, though she doesn’t actually ask him much. Just if he was safe (which he was), if it was a he or she (another question he answers honestly), and if she knows the other party (which he flat out lies about). He carries a lot of guilt over it, but telling her that he was with Castiel, that it _was_ someone she knows and her _neighbor_ at that, would mean complicating everything that he wishes would remain simple and quite possibly wrecking thing for Cas. And that’s, well, that’s just not acceptable. 

Later, he’ll wonder if that’s when he started tumbling down that slippery slope - the moment that he started weighing what Cas wanted versus honesty with Lisa.

*

The third day he has to get out of the house, so he heads into town with the sole purpose of distracting himself. He’s found himself glancing out the side windows more times than he’s prepared to admit, hoping to catch a glimpse of dark hair, or a pointed nose, or anything that would reassure him that Cas is, at the very least, still alive inside that big, creepy-ass house he’s renting, but there’s nothing and Dean’s going stir crazy. 

So he heads up to the store and spends a few hours helping the employees check in shipments, and entering payroll into the computer. The mindless work allows time to pass quickly, and it’s dark outside when he leaves. He breathes a silent sigh of relief and congratulates himself for making it through another day.

He calls Lisa as he brings the Impala to life. “Hey, babe,” he says, when she answers. “Want me to stop and grab something for dinner?”

“Don’t worry about it. I had a sandwich earlier,” she says. He hears her slam the dryer door shut and pictures her in the laundry room, hoisting their enormous basket onto her shoulder. 

“Doing laundry,” he can’t resist teasing. It’s what she gets for choosing ‘paper’ this morning in their round of Paper, Rock, Scissors. He almost offered to do it for her, and leave out their weekly ritual, but ultimately decided that would look guiltier than anything else.

A wry smile spreads across her face. He can hear it in her voice when she replies, “I hate you, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard it before.”

“Hey, swing by store and pick up some ice cream on the way home, alright?”

“Will do.”

When he disconnects, he doesn’t tuck the phone immediately back into his pocket. Instead, as he makes his way to the local Bi-Lo, he brings up Cas’ information, and debates giving him a ring, just to see how he’s holding up, and offer him a couple of pointers for dealing with his ghost, now that Dean’s done some reading on the subject. In the end, though, he doesn’t, telling himself that Cas will come to him if and when he feels like having a conversation. 

If nothing else, Dean decides, pulling into a parking space, he can give the guy another day or two. 

The grocery store is almost empty when he enters, though it’s almost nine on a weeknight, so it’s not really out of the ordinary. He grabs a cart, and heads over to the frozen section to pick up butter pecan ice cream and then, after a moment of indecision, goes to the back of the store, where the cones and toppings are kept. If Lisa wants ice cream, then it’s only fair that they do it right.

He’s deliberating between chocolate fudge or caramel when voices from the next aisle carry over. 

“I’m just worried about you,” says a woman. Possibly Hannah, from the sandwich place, if Dean had to guess. “I’ve never seen you look so unkempt. Do you get any sleep at all?”

For a moment there’s silence and Dean assumes the other person must be out of his earshot, until he hears a deep, charcoal-rough tone he’s starting to think he’d recognize anywhere. “Some. Now can we please drop this?” 

Dean’s insides go cold. Whatever relief he felt at at having actual proof that Cas is alive for the first time in days evaporates on the spot. He sounds terrible. Angry, but trying to conceal it, snappish, sharp, impatient. And it could be attributed to anything, but the part of Dean that instinctively knew how to touch Cas, warns him that something deeper is going on here. It pushes two words into the forefront of his mind and they swirl and spin, making him antsy.

“Yes, we can drop it,” Hannah agrees, after several tense moments. “Why don’t you come over tonight? We can watch a movie, I could heat up some popcorn?”

“No thank you,” Castiel says stiffly. “I only came out to get medicine.”

A soft rustle as she snatches something from his hands, and then she’s hissing, “Nyquil? You said you were sleeping!”

“Hannah, that’s enough.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up at the sudden fury radiating in Castiel’s voice. “I am not your child, nor am I your husband. This isn’t your concern.”

He hears footsteps quickly striding down the aisle, ignoring Hannah’s call, and Dean, grabbing one of the toppings at random, follows the direction they’re going from the aisle he’s in. He emerges at the front of the store at the same time as Cas does, and the moment he sees Cas for the first time in days, he has to suck in a breath and freezes in his spot. 

“Cas,” he breathes.

The man standing in front of him is a shell of the Castiel Novak Dean has been getting to know. It’s clear he hasn’t been eating; that’s the first thing Dean notices. His frame is a good ten pounds lighter, his face pale and clammy. And despite whatever he told Hannah, it’s clear he hasn’t been anywhere near a bed since the last time Dean saw him. There are navy and purple circles under his eyes, and his eyes, which Dean remembers being bright and intelligent are dull and flat. 

When Cas recognizes Dean, his face flickers through so much emotion it’s hard for Dean to pinpoint exactly what he sees there. Shock, he thinks. Irritation. Embarrassment, surely. And maybe something that would qualify as pleasure? He can’t decide. 

He reaches out a hand, slowly, and isn’t at all surprised when Castiel takes a half-step back. “Cas, we need to talk.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He shifts the Nyquil from one hand to the other, and Dean tracks the movement.

“Listen to me,” Dean says. Pity washes over him in a sudden wave, guilt so strong he could scream following closely behind. He combs a hand through his hair and darts a quick look around, and when he sees they’re alone, he drops his voice to a whisper. “Have you ever heard of sub drop, Cas?” Cas’ blank stare back is enough of an answer, so he continues. “Look, you need to go home and eat something, alright? I’ll be over as soon as I can. I’ll tell Lisa . . . Something.” He halts as another thought occurs to him. “Is Daphne at your house right now?”

Cas stiffens, his mouth pressing together into a tight line “No. Daphne’s gone.”

“Gone,” Dean repeats. Cas cannot possibly mean what it sounds like he means. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s. Gone.” Cas swallows, his empty hand curling up into a fist. “She left. She discovered my . . . research. A site.” He chokes out a mirthless laugh that makes Dean’s stomach twist with the pure wrongness of it. “She did not approve, if that wasn’t obvious. She told me it’s abnormal. Called me disgusting. She’s right, of course, I just didn’t expect-”

He really can’t help it. His hand moves out again of its own accord, and grasps firmly onto Cas’ shoulder. What Cas is describing is a nightmare, it’s the nearly everything Dean didn’t realize he was afraid of happening, and all he wants to do is fold Cas into his arms,and remind him of all the things he needs to hear. He can’t though, not yet; he still has to talk to Lisa and they’re in public. So he does what he can. He gives Cas’ arm a gentle shake until they’re eye-to-eye and says, “Cas, I swear to you, you are not disgusting. We’re going to talk, and I’m going to convince you of that if it’s the last thing I do, okay? Is that alright? Can we talk?”

Cas blinks but he doesn’t try to jerk away again. He finally nods. 

“Thank you. You won’t regret it.” Dean smiles at him, and warmth blooms in the pit of his stomach when Cas’ entire demeanor softens, just a bit. He squeezes his arm one last time, and turns to go, until Cas stops him.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Cas says, and Dean twists back to look at him in confusion “I’m not your responsibility.” A strange expression comes over his face, one Dean can’t decipher. “This isn’t what you signed up for.”

“Okay, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what it is that _you_ think I signed up for, but I ‘signed up’ to be there for you. I haven’t done anything with you that I didn’t want to do, and don’t regret any of it.” Dean wishes he could be more specific, but whatever Cas was looking for in his answer, he must find it, because he nods again. “So I’m going to run home, drop this ice cream off with Lisa, and what are you going to do, again?”

A rueful, almost imperceptible, smile seems to get tugged out of Cas, when he says, “Eat something.” He does roll his eyes, but Dean knows it’s for show.

“Right.” Dean’s gaze falls to the Nyquil bottle. “Maybe hold off on the sleep aids until we talk?”

Cas ends up buying it anyway, but he does agree to wait to take any until Dean’s had his say. 

*

He debates what to say to Lisa the entire way home, and once he gets there, he knows there’s really no way around it. He’s going to have to tell her the truth. A version of it, at least. He really doesn’t feel good about airing Cas’ dirty laundry, but there aren’t a whole hell of a lot of things that will get Dean to abandon the comfort of his home after a long day at work so something flimsy won’t work, and now that he’s seen Cas, he knows it’s not an option to leave it until tomorrow. For _days_ Cas has been going through sub drop on his own, with no idea of what’s even happening to him. Couple that with the . . . opinion Daphne offered, and there’s just no way Dean can leave the guy alone. Regardless of what Cas said, Dean _did_ sign up for this, the moment he saw him. He’d have been on board for anything. 

Lisa is sitting on the couch when Dean enters the living room, and she twists and gives him a tired smile. “Please tell me you picked up that ESP wavelength I was sending you, and say that you got caramel.”

Dean glances down at the bag in his hands and finds the caramel, and holds it up for her to see. “Message received,” he jokes. 

Lisa stands, and makes her way into the kitchen. “You okay,” she asks as she pulls the ice cream scooper from the utensils drawer. “You seem off.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I ran into Cas at the store, and he told me that, well.” Dean inwardly winces. “That Daphne left.”

Lisa’s mouth drops open. She covers it with her hand. “You can’t be serious. Oh my God. Poor Castiel.”

Dean makes a sound of agreement. “Tell me about it. I was actually thinking of heading over there for a while, try to cheer him up. You mind?”

“Of course not,” Lisa says, sounding offended that he even asks. Somehow, that only makes Dean feel worse. She takes the butter pecan ice cream out and waves the tub in Dean’s direction. “Wanna take this with you? He might need it more than I do.”

Dean brushes his lips against the top of her head. Lisa is such a fucking saint that he can’t help but feel inferior when they’re standing this close. She cares so much, and loves so hard, and okay, maybe no one is perfect, but she comes outrageously close. “No,” he says as he grabs his house keys from the hook and steps towards the door. “Thanks though. He said he was about to eat -” which is close enough to the truth “so he should be okay.” 

“Well if you’re sure,” Lisa says, and she scoops out a cone for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that sub drop works a little differently, for the most part, but I'm going to go into detail next chapter, when Dean explains it all to Cas. Just didn't want anyone to think I haven't been doing my homework. ;) Please comment or kudos if you would like to, those things are the best part of my day!


	13. Chapter 13

It takes Castiel several minutes to muster the energy required to prepare his peanut butter and jelly sandwich but it’s worth it when he takes his first bite.

When he was in college, he spent a lot of his nights dining on sandwiches, and peanut butter and jelly was always his favorite. Something easy that he could slap together while he worked on essays and outlines, and oddly enough, it’s become a sort of comfort food for him, as an adult. In fact, though he’s had no motivation to eat much of anything since Daphne walked out, he wolfs it down in two bites He stares in bewilderment at his own hands, and then, when his stomach gives a thunderous growl, he makes another that he disposes of just as quickly as the first.

He’s placing his plate in the sink when he hears the soft knock coming from the side door. 

“Come in,” he calls.

The knob twists,and he glances over just in time to see Dean step through the doorway with a large black bag in his hand. As he carefully closes the door, there’s a long moment where neither of them speaks, Dean’s eyes darting warily around the room, and Castiel silently watching the path of his gaze. 

Castiel is taken off guard by the sharp tremble affecting his hands so badly that some of the juice he poured into a glass (to forestall more lamentations from Dean, about his drinking habits) sloshes out over the sides, and he sets it down quickly, ignoring the way his cheeks flame for reasons he’s too tired to guess at. 

The sound seems to set Dean into action. He flips the bolt lock, approaches Castiel, and drops his bag onto the kitchen counter. “Hey Cas,” he finally says. Castiel offers a “Hello” of his own, but any further words die in his throat as Dean begins pulling things from the bag. 

Salt.

A fireplace poker.

A leather-bound book.

And, finally, a silver lighter. 

“Dean, what’s going on,” Castiel asks, staring blankly at the items now lying on his kitchen counter, “What is all this?”

Dean sighs and before Castiel can even venture a guess at his expression, he’s stepping into Castiel’s space and wrapping strong arms around Castiel’s waist, pulling him in close. Castiel tenses automatically, inexplicable fear racing through him, but then Dean’s smoothing long, calming strokes up and down his back. There’s a smidgen of hesitancy there, like Dean is waiting to see if he’s going to jerk away, but it isn’t long before Castiel’s releasing a sigh that comes out like a sob and holding onto Dean with a strength that could crush him. He tucks his head more securely into the curve of Dean’s neck, and breathes.

After a while, Dean pulls back until they’re at arms-length, hands still grasping Castiel’s elbows. “I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own,” he says. “I probably should have realized before now.”

“It’s alright, Dean. I’m not your responsibility,” he reminds Dean, for the second time.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Except that you are. If we’re going to be doing this, that has to be one of the conditions: that you’re my responsibility and I’m yours. Whenever we scene, we’re the only two people around, and that means that we have to watch each others’ backs. And that’s not even talking about the fact that you’re new to all of this. I mean, hell, you just spent days going through sub drop and you didn’t even know.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Castiel argues. “I looked it up while I was waiting for you, and that . . . Well, that thing that we did, it was hardly extreme enough to provoke a reaction.” Although, at the time, it had _felt_ fairly extreme. Laying himself out for Dean to watch, letting Dean touch him, guide him. It felt amazing, to trust someone else to be completely in control and give himself over entirely to the sensation of his body, but now that all the ‘Good’ has faded, he still wears guilt and shame like a heavy cloak. He doesn’t understand how Dean can even stand to look at him.

Dean doesn’t answer him immediately, considering him with more focus than seems normal. Castiel tries not to fidget under the attention. “Look, Cas, we’re going to get to all those questions, I promise, but there’s something else we’ve got to do first. It’s important, when we scene, when we’re together that way, that you feel safe. And I’m not just talking about some corny, ‘I need you to feel safe with me’ thing. Which,” Dean amends, after beat, “don’t get me wrong, I do. But this goes beyond that.” He grabs the salt and holds it up. “This is for your ghost situation.”

Castiel listens as Dean describes his research and what the salt and iron are supposed to do. He can’t help his own doubt, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a bud of hope blooming in his chest. The quiet, melodic laughter that makes the hairs on his neck stand up on end, silenced? No more suspicious glances at his trenchcoat. The end of the foreboding that always hovers near whenever he enters the house. 

Of course, it’s not as simple as all that. They’ll have to figure out who the ghost is, Dean said. Find the bones, use the salt, burn them. But Dean also talks about the rings of salt, how Castiel can create one and step inside and it will protect him from the ghost.

“We can use the salt in doorways and windows, too, to keep the ghost from crossing those thresholds, but we can’t do that until we know where this bitch is spending most of her time. But if the ghost materializes in front of you, use the poker like a bat, you know, swing it the transparent person and it’ll disappear.”

“For how long,” Castiel asks.

“No idea. I’m kinda new at this, you know.”

Castiel smiles and nods. “I’ll go through the cookware tomorrow, see if anything we brought is made of iron.” 

“The more weapons at your disposal, the better.” He glances around the room then grabs the salt and uses it to surround him and Castiel, where they stand in the kitchen. It’s a wide enough circle that there’s room to move around a bit, and Castiel gives an internal shiver at the eyes that train on him again. He can feel the subtle shift in the room, that the conversation about ghosts has passed, and that there’s another conversation around the corner that scares him even more. “You’re safe,” says Dean. “From ghosts, anyway.” He gives Castiel a weak smile. “Now I want to talk to you about sub drop, aright?”

Castiel nods. 

“The other night was probably a bad idea,” Dean starts. “Not like it wasn’t fun - because Cas, I don’t mind telling you that it was one of the best nights I’ve had in quite a while - but we didn’t talk about it beforehand, we didn’t talk about limits, we only just _barely_ had a conversation about safe words. And I should have brought up sub drop.” Dean sighs frustratedly. “I’m sorry about that, I really am. The only explanation I can give you is that it’s been a while, and I was a little thrown by how much I wanted you.”

“You were?”

Dean snorts. “You couldn’t tell?”

“Too wrapped up in wanting you, I suppose,” Castiel mumbles. His face burns but he pushes past it to say, “But I told you, I read up on sub drop. It doesn’t apply to what went on between us.”

“Well, what went on between us was different than most of these kinds of relationships,” Dean says. “I mean, I’m sure you saw that most drops happen in stable relationships, right? Which is clearly very different from what we have. And you’re right, the scene wasn’t that intense, which is why I didn’t worry too much about it at the time. But in the minutes when you should have been being taken care of, you were having a woman that you-” Dean halts, clearing his throat awkwardly, and continues, “- love tell you the exact opposite of what you should have been hearing.” Dean’s voice is so earnest, so compelling, that Castiel can’t tear his gaze away, and so he notices when a sliver of determination flickers to life on Dean’s face. “What happened between us was not disgusting.”

Castiel freezes up, eyes going wide, as the words sink into his skin. It’s somehow both exactly what he wants to hear, and what he doesn’t, but Dean doesn’t give him time to adjust and goes on. “I wanted you, and I wanted to see you like that. You were gorgeous. Hell, Cas, that was one of the hottest things that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. You shouldn’t feel ashamed.” He glances down to meet Castiel’s eyes fully, and there’s a pull in Castiel as though he can’t decide whether he wants to lose himself in the gentle green irises or hide from them. But there’s no real decision made, because he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. “Sex like this is more common than you think, and even if it wasn’t, what makes it so wrong?” Dean kisses his forehead and Castiel feels something in him shatter.

“Dean,” he whispers hoarsely. Dean’s words are making too much sense and they’re reaching the part of him that’s felt off - wrong - for days. He can’t fight it, leans into the soothing balm and lets it spread over his frayed nerves. 

“Daphne was wrong.” Dean’s lips move to the bolt of Castiel’s jaw. “She said that stuff because she doesn’t understand. She was hurting and she wanted you to hurt too.” Castiel swallows a heavy lump in his throat as Dean carefully maneuvers him until Castiel has turned around. A second later Dean’s hands are pressing and massaging his shoulders and neck. “You wear all your tension in your shoulders, did you know that,” he asks. “Noticed that the last time we did this.” He kneads at a particularly tough knot, letting out a satisfied noise when it finally dissipates. “No wonder you haven’t been fucking sleeping.”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Castiel grumbles back, but there’s no bite. He hasn’t, not well, at least. Every night he’s tried, but he’s been unable to turn his mind off, thoughts buzzing around like unsettled insects. 

He can _hear_ the disbelief Dean’s face must be wearing, but there’s no scolding for the lie. “Be that as it may, I want you to do something for me, alright?”

Castiel turns to him. There should, perhaps, be some residual nervousness or fear, but right now he feels as though there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Dean to show him how he appreciates this attention. It’s been so long since he’s been touched with any kind of regularity. “Alright.”

“I want you to get some sleep.”

“Sleep?”

Dean smiles and nods at the couch. “Yes, sleep. You’re a terrible actor and you look dead on your feet.”

“Dean, I’m fine.”

“Cas.” The atmosphere seems to change with that one word, Dean’s voice going firm. “Don’t argue with me. We both know you’re exhausted.” Castiel must still look uncertain, because Dean drops another kiss to his cheek, and mutters, “Just nap, for a couple of hours, will you? Your eyes are purple, and it’s stressing me out.”

With a sigh of defeat, Castiel takes a few steps towards the living room, pausing hesitantly at the edge of the salt circle. But he tells himself that he can’t spend the rest of his life in his kitchen and makes his way to the couch silently. 

The moment he stretches out on the cushions, he realizes just how tired he is. Immediately his head goes a little fuzzy, and his eyes blur as he tries to focus on Dean. Dean, who, without so much as a word, grabs the salt and creates a protective circle around them both, before sitting on floor at the edge of the couch. 

“Dean, sit in a chair,” Castiel mumbles, fighting a losing war against his bone-deep exhaustion. And then, a bit confusedly, “Are you staying?”

“Of course I’m staying. Now, stop talking and go to sleep.”

*

When Castiel opens his eyes, it’s pitch dark outside, and he is as rested as though he’s been asleep for years. Distractedly, he glances around the room for Dean and has to smother a jolt of panic when he realizes that Dean is no longer sitting at his feet. He tries to be impatient with himself for this surge of embarrassing clinginess, but he thought that Dean said he wouldn’t leave. 

_His prerogative,_ Castiel thinks, sitting up. He pushes away the blanket that somehow ended up covering him. _He has a girlfriend. I’m not his primary concern._

The sound of footsteps approaching jerks Castiel out of his thoughts, and he looks over just in time to see Dean emerge from the guest bedroom. “Hey, Cas,” he says, smiling widely. “Sorry about the independent exploration around your house, but I got bored watching you dream.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel replies reassuringly. He gets to his feet and stumbles to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth to rid himself of the cottonmouth and hopefully bring himself to full consciousness. “Thank you for the advice, I feel much better now,” he says as he rejoins Dean in the living room. 

Dean grins, almost impish, and shrugs. “Not a problem. Kind of a part of the job description. Hungry?” He hold out a plate of chocolate chip cookies and Castiel grabs two. 

“You made cookies,” he asks. 

“I got _really_ bored,” Dean teases. “Don’t get me wrong. Watching your eyeballs moving around behind your eyelids _was_ pretty entertaining at first, but eventually, you know, I needed to do something else. So I made these cookies, and went in search of something.”

“Something,” Castiel questions, around his second cookie. 

“Yep. Wanna play?”

“Play?”

“Okay, do you hear that echo?”

Castiel smiles despite himself, and says, “I’m sorry. I’m just not sure I understand. When you say play, you mean . . . Play? As in, Dominant and submissive play? That’s what you’re talking about?”

“It is.” 

“Now?”

“If that’s alright with you.” And he can see that Dean means it. That he’s waiting for Castiel’s acceptance or refusal and it gives him strength, and just a bit of boldness. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Great. But before we get started, we need to discuss some rules. You know, have the discussion that we should have had the first time. You good with that?”

“Of course, Dean.”

Together they return to the dining room table, and he sees the list that Dean’s been creating in the interim time. There aren’t but a few words on it, but he studies them carefully. 

Dean waits patiently, and when Castiel has finished his examination, he sets the piece of paper back on the table. “Those are my hard limits,” Dean says. He frowns. “You know what a hard limit is?”

“Yes, Dean.” 

“Tell me.”

“Things you won’t do in BDSM play,” parrots Castiel. “Ever, under any circumstances.”

Dean nods approvingly. “Right. Exactly. You’ll see there aren’t too many. Medical crap, not interested. No bloodplay, no asphyxiation. I don’t pee on people, and I’m not big on age play, but there’s an ‘S’ beside, meaning it’s a soft limit. Something we could do if you were really curious about it.”

Castiel looks at the list again, and, already determining Dean’s next question, he picks up the pencil by the paper and adds, _Animal Roles_ and _Outdoor Sex_ , but the latter gets an ‘S’ of its own. “I’m not exactly sure what my hard limits are,” Castiel admits. “I’m not exactly sure how far I’m willing to go in certain areas.”

“That’s completely fine,” Dean assures him. “I just wanted to make sure you at least knew of one or two. You know, be sure that you understood what I mean.” He clears his throat. “Other rules. We never, ever play drunk. There’s just too much that can go wrong if our minds are impaired, and with you being new at this, we both need to be at the top of our game. You good with that?”

“Very,” Castiel answers. He can’t imagine trying to do anything like the other night with one or both of them inebriated.

“Good. Now, Cas, when we play, I’d like you to address me as ‘Sir.’ I know that may feel awkward at first, but it’ll be a good way to stay in the right headspace, and, you know, the added bonus being that I just really like it.” He smirks at Castiel, who chuckles and nods in agreement. “Okay, and lastly. Just, general rules more than anything else. I’m not going to tell you how to groom yourself; that’s entirely up to you. If we’re in the middle of play and you have a question, ask it. _Especially_ at first. There will times when I won’t give you permission to speak, but we’ve got some time before we get there. I want to make sure you’re comfortable while you’re learning.” Dean takes a breath, narrows his eyes to assess Castiel. “How you doing so far?”

“Green,” Castiel answers promptly. And he is. He’s feeling good about this, and though he has been thinking about Daphne, it’s a sad truth that she’s just not as much of a factor here as she should be. If she comes back maybe they will be able to sort out their problems, but as it stands he’s not sure if he’ll ever see her again. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“No that about covers it, for now.” Dean gets to his feet and Castiel follows automatically. “These first few times I’ll probably check on your color a lot. And do _not_ hold back if something doesn’t feel right. I’m not going to be pissed at you for safewording, got me?”

A flutter erupts in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. This is it. “Of course. I understand, Dean.”

Dean smiles again, the excitement between them palpable, then he goes over to the bag he brought with him and withdraws a long stretch of thin, blue rope. Their gazes connect and Castiel would have _sworn_ he saw sparks. “Color?”

“Green.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I knew the chapter dealing with the sub drop would take a while, but it ended up being much more involved than I'd thought. Also, you'll see things with Dean and Cas and their D/s relationship get more structured, the more their relationship evolves.


	14. Chapter 14

He takes another breath, allows his mind to clear. In a way, this is their first time doing this and he wants to get it right. He wants Cas to know that his trust is safe in Dean’s hands. That he’s not going to hurt him or let him fall and that there’s something more than sex lying between them. There’s a deeper beauty in Cas that Dean just knows he can reveal to him because he’s seen it himself. He sees it now, in blue eyes that don’t reflect with fear, in arms that rest pliantly at his sides. He looks to Dean for direction but says nothing.

Dean’s heart flutters with anticipation and he smiles to hide his nerves before resuming an impassive mask he remembers well. “I’m going into your guest bedroom,” he says. “I want you to count to ten and then follow me. When you’re inside the room, strip and then wait for me to give you further instruction. Do you understand?”

He watches Cas swallow thickly. A beat later and he answers, “Yes . . . sir. Yes, sir.”

Dean nods once in acknowledgement and leaves him. 

The guest room, not surprisingly, hasn’t changed in the last couple of minutes, so he immediately goes over to the bed and grabs the sheet he found in the linen closet. He drapes it over the tall, stand-alone mirror and turns just in time to see Cas pass through the doorway. There’s a hint of hesitation, nervousness of his own, but Dean knows he would be naive if he thought that Cas would transition so seamlessly that he wouldn’t be able to see it. This isn’t just sex. 

Cas undresses in silence, hands steady and calm as he pulls off his shirt and unzips his jeans. Dean’s throat goes dry when Cas pushes them down and they pool around his ankles and then has the hysterical urge to laugh when he catches sight of the giant bumblebees that decorate Cas’ boxers. There’s a moment that passes between them, so easily identifiable that they might as well be speaking, as Cas dares Dean to say anything about them and Dean tries not to react.

It’s not at all funny when Cas’ underwear joins the rest of his clothing. 

It’s not the first time Dean’s seen Cas’ cock, red and perking up at their actions but it takes him aback nonetheless. God, he’s gorgeous. 

Cas shifts impatiently in his spot. 

“Cas, stay still.” The words fall reflexively from his lips, warmth and desire burning bright when Cas flushes at the correction but doesn’t argue. He stands a little straighter as Dean draws near, grabbing the rope from the bed, where he’d left it. “Much better.”

“Thank you, sir,” he murmurs. Doubt flickers across his face and he glances questioningly at Dean, who smiles reassuringly.

“You really have exceptional manners, Cas.” He smooths a hand down Cas’ chest to his hip and leaves it there. “It’s an under-appreciated quality.” Cas’ eyes are trained on where they touch and when he doesn’t respond, Dean pinches the skin there, not hard enough to hurt, but sudden enough that Cas snaps his gaze up. “Are you listening to me?”

“Of course. I’m sorry . . . sir. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dean moves to stand behind him, rests his hands on Cas’ shoulders. Giving in to the desire, he leans forward and brushes his lips against both, in turn. He smiles when he hears Cas breathe in once and exhale slowly and deliberately. God, it’s invigorating, the knowledge that Cas is controlling himself simply because Dean told him to. 

Because he knows what’s coming, Dean takes Cas’ arms and very carefully tugs them backwards, until Cas’ elbows are pressed against each other. He listens, ears perked for any sound of discomfort, but there’s none. “You’re flexible,” he marvels with a grin. Ideas pop up, each more imaginative than the rest, but he ignores them for now. They’ll get there eventually, if Cas decides he wants to do this again. 

“I took yoga back in Virginia,” Cas replies after a moment, and though his voice is steady Dean detects a strain to keep it in check. 

“Huh.” He releases Cas’ arms, lets them fall back to his side, and pulls out the rope. He folds it in half before taking the part where it’s folded and holding it against the skin between Cas’ shoulder blades. Then he wraps the two lines of parallel rope around his left arm, then his front, then his right, and pulls it tight. 

He catches Cas’ wince. “Color, Cas?”

“Green, sir.” 

He nearly asks him if he’s sure, but catches himself in time. He told Cas he would trust him to be honest and if he’s planning to stand by that, he can’t let himself treat Cas like his judgement can’t be trusted. So he doesn’t argue, and continues working. The loose rope goes through the loop and around again. He knots it off, and pulls the rest of the rope down to run parallel to Cas’ spine and says, “Put your wrists together.” 

Cas responds instantly, and he starts to work on them. Around Cas’ left wrist, then the right, then over the rope, and in the opposite direction and until he finally ties the knot. He takes stock of how much rope is left, and decides to finish the way he planned, and goes to Cas’ upper arms, above his elbow. He treats this area just like the wrists, and pulls tight. Then, finally, he’s tying off the excess up at his shoulders and stepping back to examine his work.

“Holy fucking Christ,” he breathes. “Cas-” And beyond that, words fail him. There is no way he can verbalize what he’s feeling as he takes in the view. Cas, so strong and real and perfect, letting Dean take over and show him sensations that he never knew before. Cas, who, just a few days ago, thought all of this was about abuse and pain. He glances at Cas’ face and - And this is clearly the best decision he’s made in a long time. 

Cas’ face is one of utter joy. He tugs against the ties to test their strength; they don’t budge, and that seems to make him even happier. His breathing is coming out in excited puffs, the corners of his lips quirked up into a tiny small. It’s an experience that Dean knows well, has seen with others in the past, but it’s never made him as proud as it does at this moment, knowing that _he’s_ the one that put that peaceful expression on Cas’ face, and no one else. “How do you feel?”

“Green, green, very green, sir,” Cas babbles back at him. 

The slap Dean delivers to his right asscheek sings through the air like shot. Cas yells with surprise, but Dean ignores it and says, “When I want your color, I will ask for it. I asked you how you _feel_. I want you to use words beyond the color system, Cas.”

Cas blushes prettily, and nods. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I feel good, sir. Very good.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “The ropes . . . I don't know if I can explain it, but it feels very good to have their restriction.” 

Dean smiles wide and then steps around Cas so that he can see. He wants Cas to know for certain just how badly Dean wants him like this, how the animal inside Dean wants to break loose and take Cas apart, make him scream, make him cry, make him come so hard he can’t think.

Cas’ breath catches as he stares back. “De - Sir. I-”

He covers Cas’ mouth his his fingertips until he falls silent. “You feel good? Right? That’s what you said.”

Cas nods. 

“Do you feel disgusting?”

Cas’ gaze flies to his, the question and surprise warring there for dominance. He doesn’t answer right away, licking his lips and thinking. Then he mumbles, “No. I don’t.”

“And do you think that _I_ think you’re disgusting? I mean, do I _look_ like I think you’re disgusting?” 

This one has Cas hesitating, but Dean doesn’t punish him this time. He wants to wait it out, let Cas come to the conclusions on his own. “No,” he finally relents. “But-”

Dean holds up a hand to stop him and Cas obediently snaps his mouth closed. “No buts.” He leads Cas over to the covered mirror, and watches the realization dawn on Cas’ face right as he yanks the sheet away. 

Dean gently turns him to the side so that he can see his bindings and Cas gasps aloud and slides closer to the mirror. His eyes are filled with wonder as he stares at their reflections. “You’re beautiful,” Dean says into his ear, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Every inch.” He presses a firm kiss to Cas’ arm where he knows that the rope is digging into his skin, creating their first marks. “When I think about you like this, it makes me crazy.” He steps back, leaving himself enough room to shed his overshirt and then he pulls his t-shirt over his head, revealing his chest. 

Cas spins around in shock, and breathes, “Dean.” Dean raises an eyebrow, and Cas corrects, “Sir. Sir, please, I want to touch you.” This time he full-on struggles against the bindings but Dean knows there’s no chance of them loosening without his assistance, so, with one eye on Cas, he reaches for his belt buckle. Cas freezes.

It is a little gratifying, Dean admits to himself as he peels the jeans from his legs, pushing them onto the floor, knowing that Cas is as desperate for him as he is for Cas. He’d been a little concerned when he found out Cas has never been with a man, but there’s no mistaking that hungry look as Dean’s underwear joins the rest of his clothes. 

“Sir,” Cas pleads. “Just, let me touch you, please.”

Dean shakes his head as he approaches him again. He kisses Cas’ temple and lets one hand trail to Cas’ exposed cock. He doesn’t pull or stroke, just lets it rest low on Cas’ abdomen. “No, Cas,” he tells him. “This is about you, about how you see yourself. I want you to understand how hard you make me, how much I want you. How incredible you look like this.” He presses his lips to Cas’, reveling in the soft gasp breathed into his mouth, and then reaches into his back pocket to pull out a little packet of lube. He squeezes some out onto his hand. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, Cas.” 

Then he’s taking Cas’ cock in his hand, and firmly and roughly jerking him off. 

Cas lets out a loud yell, head falling back, and Dean instantly pulls away. Cas looks to him, trembling, blinking furiously and chokes out, “Wh- Why did you stop?”

“What did I ask you to do, Cas?”

Cas colors and meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror. “You asked me to watch the mirror, sir..”

“Right,” says Dean. “You’ve been so good for me, all along. I know you can do this.” He smirks at the determination slipping into Cas’ features and then he’s circling his hand around that hot flesh once more. This time Cas doesn’t break his concentration in watching their reflections as Dean begins his slow, torturous movements. Up, and down, thumb the slit, and up, catch the skin by his balls, and down. Cas' gaze is on the reflection and his breathing becomes stuttered when Dean uses the backs of his nails on his length. Cas is a writhing mess in his arms but Dean’s free hand holds him in place with a firm grip on his hip. “How do you feel,” he whispers, voice low. “Tell me.”

“Like I can fly,” Cas moans. “I- I don’t-”

“Say it.”

“I don’t _feel_ abnormal!” And the admission has tears welling up in his beautiful blue eyes, and Dean kisses his cheek, his throat. 

“Because you’re not.” He ups his speed, soaking his hand with the lube and precome, groaning into Cas’ neck. “You’re stunning, like I’ve said all along. I mean, Cas, for God’s sake, _look_ at yourself, dammit. Having you like this, it makes me fucking crazy.” He leans down and _bites_ Cas’ shoulder so sharply he’s sure it’ll leave a mark, and there’s no part of him that doesn’t thrill at that.

Cas jerks and trembles and then he’s begging, “Please, sir, I’m close and I need to come. Please, please!”

Dean grins smugly. “Is that right? Well, what are you waiting for?” Of course, Dean can see that his eyes are starting to glaze over, that he’s going to lose him soon, so he doesn’t wait for an answer and, nipping gently at Cas’ ear, murmurs, “Come for me, Cas.”

Cas gives a soft cry and with one final stroke, he’s falling apart right in Dean’s arms, eyes still glued to the mirror. Dean’s careful to keep him steady as the aftershocks flow through his body, and he whispers quiet encouragements until Cas is all but slumping into him. “I’ve got you,” he tells him. And then he’s shifting until his own cock is digging into Cas’ hip and he’s thrusting once, twice, three times, and then coming all _over_ Cas. Dean doesn’t think of himself as a possessive guy, but there’s something so satisfying about knowing that he’s the only person on Earth who gets to have Cas like this, that gets to see him wet with his come. It makes him run his fingers through it, and then into Cas’ hair. 

He kisses him softly. “Alright, lets get you out of this armbinder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. Let me know what you think!


End file.
